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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap^.^^.C^FiS^o 

Shelf„.£j3^S4 
— MLOO 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



SOME 
RUSTIC RHYMES 



/ 



WILL TEMPLER 



!^^<ti^^ 



Let us go back to the shady woods, 
To the meadows and fields of clover ; 

Let us return to our childhood's days, 
And in fancy live them over. 



^ 



NEW YORK 

THE BURR PRINTING HOUSE 

1900 



TWO COPIES .vECElVED, 

tjbrary of Congre»% 
Office of the 

FEB 5-1900 

Itegrster of Copyrtghfs;^ 



. tz lis ^^ 



54267 



Copyright, 1899, by 
WILLIAM TEMPLER BECKER, 



8£CONOCOPt» 



To My Friend 

JAMES E. TOWER, 

To WHOSE KINDLY INTEREST I OWE EVERYTHING, 
THIS VOLUME IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED. 



PREFACE. 



Prompted by the solicitations of friends, I have 
collected from the various publications in which 
they have appeared these simple rustic rhymes, and 
now offer them for the first time in the form of a 
little book. In them I have endeavored to portray 
country life as it is ; its joys and its sorrows, its 
humor and its pathos, its hopes for the future and 
its traditions of the past, not as seen from a dis- 
tance, but from the vantage ground of a life spent 
among rural people. 

How well I have succeeded I leave to the opinion 
of those who may read, whether they are to-day ac- 
tive in country life, or whether it comes back to 
them laden with the memories of a happy past. 

Will Templer. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



The Rain Upon the Roof, 

The Outside Cellar Door, 

For Fifty Cents, 

Received and Answered, . 

A Summer Campaign, 

The Thunderstorm, . 

Hot Enough for Him, 

The Last Load of Hay, . 

Cowbells in a Dream, 

Cow Time, .... 

Sam Purdy's Huskin' Bee, 

The Fall Cricket, . 

Our Thanksgiving, . 

At Night when the Chores is Done, 

Dan's Cellar and Mine, . 

Cold, Ain't It? . 

'Bout Tax Time, 

Puzzled, .... 

The Weather Prophets, . 

Somewhat Selfish, . 

Time to Quit, . 

The Lunacy of Cyrus Kent, 

Old Jim, .... 

The 'Ere Brown, 



PAGE 

I 

4 
6 
8 

lO 

12 

i6 
i8 
19 
23 
26 
29 
33 
35 
38 
44 
46 
48 
50 
52 
54 
57 
60 
62 



Vlll 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



A Feller that I Know, . 

Where Stood the Why, . 

A Conservative, 

Sam Robbins' Ambition, . 

Under the Church Shed, 

Cause and Effect, . 

An Assemblyman's Price, 

Let the Old Dog In, 

The Family's Needs, 

Looking for Work, . 

The Fate of a Lazy Man, 

Interest versus Beer, 

A Pessimist, 

My Boys, .... 

Fishing for Bullheads, . 

A Great Day for Game, . 

Donkey and Monkey, 

The Old Oaken Sawbuck, 

Playing Bear, . 

My Schoolgirl Sweetheart, 

A Rustic Romance, . 

Marrying a Pig for His Pen, 

Toward the Sunset, 

A Philosopher of Middle Age, 

A Winter's Dawn, . 

A Winter's Night in the Olden 

A Voyage to Niddy-Nod-Land, 

A Difference in Opinion, 

Knowledge, .... 

Beauty, ..... 

The Other Life, 



Time, 



PAGE 

65 

67 
70 

72 

73 

76 

78 
80 
82 
84 
87 
91 
9^ 
93 
95 
98 

99 
100 
102 
104 
106 
108 
109 
III 
112 

113 
115 
116 
118 
119 
120 






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J 






w 




SOME RUSTIC RHYMES 



THE RAIN UPON THE ROOF. 

Just daylight, and the sombre dawn is creeping- 
through the bhnd, 

Our waking eyes, in darkened nooks, strange shapes 
and shadows find ; 

There's music in the atmosphere, beaten on roof and 
pane, 

The dreamy, restful music of the softly falling rain. 

What is there in this lullaby of softly falling rain, 

That takes us back to other days, to live them o'er 
again ? 

We drift, in drowsy, sweet content, back to the days 
of old ; 

We dream, although we're not asleep, while memo- 
ries unfold. 

We're boys again, and it is June, a June of long 
ago; 

We sleep up in the woodshed loft, our summer 
ranch, you know. 

The music that we listen for's the steady patt'ring 
show'r, 

And when there's such a morn as this, we doze an- 
other hour. 



2 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Splash, splash, there at the gutter the barrel is run- 
ning o'er ; 

Drip, drip, the roof has sprung a leak; I hear it on 
the floor ; 

The brook clown by the spring house has burst its 
banks, I think; 

Now that will roil the water, and it w^on't be fit to 
drink. 

Tink, tink, the cows are coming, slowly coming up 

the lane. 
We hear the brazen cow bell wdiere they're waiting 

in the rain ; 
It's milking time. Well, if it is, the cows can surely 

wait 
An hour or so, this rainy morn, and then it won't be 

late. 

That thumping in the stable, that tramping to and 

fro. 
Is old Jerry getting hungry, he always acts just so. 
He won't have much to do to-day; let him exercise 

his hoof 
While we will dream and listen to the rain upon the 

roof. 

The pigs are squealing in the pen, we hear the 

roosters crow, 
From the pasture on the side hill come bleatings 

soft and low ; 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 3 

Those robins in the apple-tree are making quite a 

row; 
Old Ben is barking at the gate ; what is the matter 

no^^^ ? 

'Tis strange that when we get a chance to snatch 

a little sleep, 
The turkeys all must gobble, ducks quack and 

chickens peep. 
There's a clatter in the kitchen round the cook stove. 

Mother's there. 
It won't be very long before we hear her on the 

stair. 

" The chores are all to do; dear boys, get up," she'll 

softly say. 
*' You soon will finish up your work, then rest, this 

rainy day." 
We turn upon the pillow now, broad day, all things 

are plain ; 
Our bovhood dream has vanished, and we are men 



Dear mother, we will listen for your loving voice in 

vain, 
We nevermore will hear your call mid the patter 

of the rain, 
But if your spirit guards your boys, O never hold 

aloof 
While we dream of boyhood's days, and it rains 

upon the roof. 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 



THE OUTSIDE CELLAR DOOR. 

Most folks brought up in the country have shd 

down the cellar door 
When they was young and coltish, but 
I'm thinkin' enough sight more 
Have made it a place to recline on and kind o' 

lounge around 
On keenish days in springtime, when the sno's most 

left the ground 
'Cept what lays along the stone walls, 
And in hollers here and there — 
Just enough to bender fence makin', and keep a 

chilly air. 

Then on Sunday, after meetin', wdien 

I've had a dinner good. 

And sunshine on the cellar door has been warmin' 
up the wood, 

I like to w^ander 'round there to the south side of 
the house. 

And git stretched out on the slopin' door as still 
as any mouse. 

While I hearken to the music of the little tricklin' 
rills 

That are coursin' toward the river from the snow- 
banks on the hills. 

There I lay and dream, and listen, with my arm 
beneath my head, 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 5 

To the phoebe that's explorin' for a home out in the 

shed; 
To the robin and the bluebird that are pipin' in the 

trees ; 
To the buzzin' and the hummin' of warmed-over 

flies and bees; 
To the hens out in the barnyard — in the stable — 

on the hay, 
Tellin' all the world the story of the eggs they're 

bound to lay. 

I hear lowin's from the stable, from the chicken 

coop a peep; 
The little lambs are frolickin' around the mother 

sheep ; 
Then pretty soon I'm dozin' and I'm wakened by 

a snore — 
I've been sleepin' in the sunshine on the outside 

cellar door. 



6 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

FOR FIFTY CENTS. 

Up to John Kannady's vandue — John let his farm 

this spring — 
I didn't do quite Uke some men that seldom buy 

a thing 
To a sale, but git there 'bout noon 'er a little before, 
An' set around in the women's way, an' spit on th' 

kitchen floor 
Till they hear that dinner's ready ; then, hurrah for 

a dog-cheap feast. 
But I've noticed that them that waits fur grub most 

always buys the least. 

I got my grub afore I went to Kannady's that day. 
The thing I wanted mostly was his double pleasure 

sleigh, 
But that was sold when I got there; so I bid on some 

tackle blocks, 
An' was butt'nin' up my coat to go, when John 

brought out a box 
That held most ev'rything; he said they'd sell it by 

the lot. 
An' w4ien I bid four shillin' they took me on the 

spot. 

Wa'll, I got the box home somehow, an' next day 

when it rained, 
I took it to the wagon house to see what it contained. 
First come an old corn cutter an' a piece of leather 

tug, 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 7 

A ridin' whip, two wutbless bits, a handle off a 

jug; 
Come next an umbareller frame — the handle part 

was out ; 
A cradle knib, two old horseshoes, a hammer, less 

a snout, 

A leaky wash-dish, an' a nub from off some critter's 
horn. 

Three four-inch bolts, one five-inch, do, an ear of 
yeller corn. 

Thirteen old nuts, a lump of chalk, a dozen feet of 
line. 

Two bottles that had once contained some spur'ts of 
turpentine. 

Five wornout cockeyes, an' a chunk of heavy har- 
ness hame, 

An old plowshear, a black clay pipe, an empty honey 
frame, 

A dozen ground-out reaper knives, a bit of fan mill 

screen, 
A little pas'board box that once had held some 

paris green; 
A chiny aig, some nails, all bent, a pair of terret 

rings, 
A piece of tin, a rusty knife, an' lots of other things. 
That I can't so well remember, but you see, at all 

events. 
That I didn't " shoot my granny " when I bid that 

fifty cents. 



SOME RUSTIC RHYAIES. 

RECEIVED AND ANSWERED. 

'' Now how," writes my city nephew, John, 
" Are you and Aunt Sarah coming on ? 
How are Steve and WiU and Jen and Grace- 
How's ev'rything on your dear old place? 
I hope your 'tatoes and corn are hilled. 
Your haying- over, your barns well filled 
With a heavy crop of hay and rye. 
And room enough left for oats, by-'n'-by. 

" We're kind o' peaked, my wife and I, 
The weather has been so hot and dry; 
And we think there is no kind of doubt, 
But that you're wanting us to come out 
And get away from the dust and heat. 
And taste Aunt Sarah's good things to eat. 
So write me, please, that you will meet me. 
My wife, our nurse and our children three 
At depot, Saturday, half-past two; 
We're coming to stay a month with you." 

And I wrote, '' John, city nephew, dear, 
We are all alive and kicking, here ; 
Our potatoes and our corn are hilled 
And our barns with hay are nearly filled. 
We are looking for our oat crop now. 
To cram the top of every mow ; 
When harvest is over, wet or dry. 
There's thirty acres to plow for rye ; 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

No time to play and no chance to shirk 
We work to hve, and we Hve to work. 

" About the buildings things still go on 
The same as they did last summer, John. 
Your Aunt Sarah's chicken crop has shrunk 
(The work of a predatory skunk). 
Our youngest porkers have learned to root, 
The apple orchard hangs full of fruit ; 
The girls are making canned fruit and jell — 
Aunt Sarah attends to the dairy. Well ! 

" I guess that's 'bout all I've got to say; 
The girls were planning to go away 
And rest a spell, and so were the boys ; 
But they won't go now, and miss the joys 
Of entertaining the friends they love, 
And the cooking for 'em on a stove 
Some days in August; so come — come on, 
And bring your family with you, John ; 
Aunt Sarah will greet you with a hug; 
We'll wait on your fam'ly, nurse and pug. 
We won't mind the work nor dust nor heat. 
When you've a good time and enough to eat.' 



lO SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 



A SUMMER CAMPAIGN. 

Strange, that a feller's got to fight from early 

spring to fall, 
A-killin' bugs, an' worms, an' things, er else raise 

nothin' 'tall. 
The frost was hardly g*one this spring, 'er sap had 

ceased to boil. 
Afore I was after th' worms' nests a-burnin' 'em out 

with oil. 
The next that came was 'tater bugs, the Colorado 

kind. 
I knocked 'em off an' stomped on 'em till I was al- 
most blind; 
I greened 'em and I purpled 'em till I could see no 

more, 
Then went a-huntin' currant worms by the dozen 

an' the score. 
The radishes an' turnips next, both come in for their 

share, 
For maggots was a-eatin' 'em; it almost made me 

swear, 
But I went for them air maggots an' knocked 'em 

out with drugs, 
An' then I stopped an' spent a day on pesky striped 

bugs 
That was eatin' up my cucumbers an' melon plants 

an' such, 
But I left 'em for to go an' give the cabbage worms 

a touch. 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. II 

The corn field with cut Avorms an' grubs next called 

my best attention, 
An' I dug 'em out an' killed 'em, too, too numerous 

to mention. 
Then I went an' sprayed my apple-trees with par is 

green an' brine. 
An' applied the Bordeaux mixture to each young 

an' growin' vine. 
The 'tater blight was on my patch 'n I het to tend 

to that. 
An' hustle round an' smash enough squash bugs to 

fill my hat. 
The gapes lit on my chickens as soon as they was 

born. 
The tarnal grasshoppers have et the silk all off my 

corn. 
In short, I've spent the summer a-fightin' worms 

an' slugs. 
An' grasshoppers, an' crickets, an' moths, an' flies, 

an' bugs. 
I've met the pests an' fit 'em an' put 'em all to rout. 
An' now I set an' wonder that so little knocks 'em 

out. 



12 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 



THE THUNDERSTORM. 

All through the torrid, meUing heat of that long, 
July clay, 

Up and down we worked, perspiring, mid the win- 
rows of the hay; 

Not a wave upon the wheat field, not a twig upon 
the oak. 

Not a quiver of the poplar leaves, a passing breeze 
bespoke. 

The sounds down in the meadow were the locust 
loud and harsh, 

The cricket by the brookside, the tree-frog on the 
marsh. 

While from the hazy valley came the sound of far- 
off train, 

The heavy, booming, hollow sound, that's heard 
before a rain. 

We talked, while at the midday meal, of signs of 
sudden showers ; 

One saw, that morn, a heavy dew upon the grass 
and flowers, 

The water jug was sweating too, that day so hot and 
dry. 

While still another one had heard a cuckoo's warn- 
ing cry. 

We dozed beneath a spreading tree, our needed 
noonspell off, 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 1 3 

Then led our well-fed horses to the dripping water 

trough ; 
And while they drank, with anxious eyes we 

searched the sky so bright. 
But saw no cloud to promise us a show'r before the 

night. 

So, in the meadow up and down, with pitchforks 

gleaming bright. 
With going wagon loaded, and returning wagon 

light ; 
We gathered up our treasure, never stopping once 

to rest, 
For clouds were slowly gathering and darkening 

the west. 

Such clouds ! black, sullen, massive, came crowding 

up the blue ; 
Shapes of human heads colossal, shapes of witch 

and devil too. 
Shape of castle, shape of tower, shape of chimney, 

turret, spire; 
Ever shifting, ever changing, tipped with golden 

sunlit fire. 

Till the sun himself was covered and withdrew his 

glowing form. 
And the world stood still and waited for the coming 

of the storm. 
The darkened west looked like a night bereft of all 

its stars, 



14 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

We saw the flash and heard the roll of God's elec- 
tric cars. 



We worked with silent, steady strokes, with much 

to lose or gain, 
We saw from the horizon lift the curtain of the 

rain ; 
A curtain like a funeral pall, with ragged edge of 

white, 
As onward, upward, swift it came, a giant in its 

mig'ht. 

We heard beyond the distant hills a hurried, rush- 
ing roar, 

A sound as of a w^aterfall, or great waves upon the 
shore. 

The roar grew louder as the fringe of rain came o'er 
the wood. 

We felt its cooling breath upon our faces where we 
stood. 

Nor did we wait, but climbed upon our hardly 

finished load; 
Then down the slope, and through the lane, and out 

into the road, 
Our running horses took us as we raced before the 

wind, ^ 

And when the barn door welcomed us the storm 

was still behind. 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 15 

Within the cool and roomy barn we sat by the open 
door, 

And saw the writhing, wind-swept trees, and 
watched the downward ponr. 

The fitful lightning's glare we noted with each zig- 
zag flash. 

And w^ondered if it struck quite near with each loud 
thunder crash. 

An hour passed by. The west once more resumed 

its azure hue. 
The setting sun threw out his beams upon raindrops 

thin and few. 
Across the east we saw God's bow; nature smiled, 

the air was warm. 
We bowed our heads and worshipped Him, and 

thanked Him for the storm. 



1 6 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 



HOT ENOUGH FOR HIM. 

Sailor Ben sat in the sun when the maiden came 

that way. 
"Hot enough for you, Uncle Ben?" was what I 

heard her say. 
" Wa'al, yes," the vet'ran made reply, '' that is, it's 

warm somewhat, 
But folks that live round here about hain't seen a 

day that's hot. 
What do you say? it's ninety-six! Why, that ain't 

nothin', child ; 
If you'd a-seen the day I did, 'twould fairly make 

you wild 
With thinkin' what you hed ben through, an' that 

you're still alive. 
Ah, yes, how well I recollect, 'twas eighteen fifty- 
five 
When Cousin Abe an' Sime an' me all went an' hed 

our wish, 
Runnin' away on a mac'rel sloop to Newfoundland 

to fish. 

" That day? O, yes, I'll git to that; 'twas August 

on the Banks, 
Aloft hung the sails all lifeless, an' on our deck the 

planks 
Was twistin' an' warpin' an' curlin' up with the 

scorchin' heat, 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. IJ 

An' none of us walked acrost 'em fur fear of blis- 
tered feet. 
But we hed some compensation, I guess you will 

agree ; 
We ketched some nice biled mac'rel out of the 

steamin' sea. 
Our ham an' aigs we put on deck an' let 'em lay 

a while; 
They soon got fried, an' we eet 'em, miss, in reg'lar 

hotel style. 
All seams b'iled out pitch an' oakum, an' the sailors 

scraped off some 
Fur sech as were out of tobacker to use as chawin' 

gum. 

''How did we live, did you ask me? I swan, I 

sca'cely know. 
We was all packed in ice an' pickle, under the decks 

below ; 
As it was, Abe lost his whiskers, an' Sime's mus- 
tache come out, 
An' as fur my hair, I hain't it, fur I shed it all about. 
Same as the rest of thet crew did, endurin' all that 

heat, 
Fur we was roasted through and through, same as 

a piece of meat. 
How high was the thermo/zzc^ter? O, please don't 

ask sech stuff; 
We hed a glass mos' four feet long, but 'twasn't 

long enough, 



l8 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

So we — ah, you're goin', be you? Wa'al, I think 
you will agree 

That the day we hed on the Banks was quite hot 
enough fur me." 

She went, and the sailor muttered : " That's eigh- 
teen times to-day 

I've ben asked that same old ches'nut; now, what'll 
a feller say? '' 



THE LAST LOAD OF HAY. 

The wheat and the rye have been housed for a fort- 
night. 

The golden oats glow^ in the sun on the hill. 
The sheds and the lofts are all bulging with clover, 

And bays full of timothy rise from the sill. 

The mower is silent — its labors are over, 

To-da}^ it was draw^n from the low meadow swale, 

Where grass along ditches, blue lilies and bulrush, 
Was separate kept from the hay cut for sale. 

" So drive to the meadow, the old bottom meadow, 
The swale where the grass grew so thick and so 
rank, 

Not extra hay, true, but for feeding horned cattle 
Some day in the winter 'twill beat a snowbank. 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. IQ 

" Now pitch it on lively, that cloud in the west there 
May give us a show'r 'ere the close of the day, 

But we will not mind it, when under the ridge pole 
Is landed for this year our last load of hay." 



COWBELLS IN A DREAM. 

Onc't — no, 'twa'n't a " midnight dreary," 
Neither was I weak, but weary, 

Fur I had dug potaters all that long September 
day. 
I was peacefully a-sleepin'. 
And at twelve o'clock was keepin' 

Time to snorin' respiration in a satisfact'ry way. 

Of my boyhood I was dreamin', 
And it seemed and kep' a-seemin' 

That I het to drive the cows up from the wood- 
land pastur' lot. 
Seemed I couldn't find them cattle, 
Tho' I heard the cowbell's rattle, 

With its " tinkle, tinkle, tinkle," as it moved from 
spot to spot. 

Goin' off and comin' nearer, 
Gittin' faint and growin' clearer, 

Soundin' jes' the same as cowbells has ben 
soundin' sence they wuz — 



20 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

From the woods where sung the thrushes, 
From the swamp where growed the rushes, 

And mos' frequently was heard the gentle, soft, 
musketeer's buzz. 

In the valley 'mong the beeches. 
Where the sunshine seldom reaches. 

Where the solemn little screech-owl ust to set so 
grave and still. 
Through the sap-bush in the open, 
Dillydallyin' and mopin' — 

'' Tinkle, tinkle," toward the pine-tree with the 
dove's nest on the hill. 

Down along the little brooklet. 
Where with bent pins for a booklet 

We e'er sought to ketch the minny dartin' to and 
fro so spry, 
And the darnin'-needle's quiver 
Through the sunlight made us shiver. 

While our ears we quickly covered when he went 
a-flashin' by; 

But he never, never, never. 

Made the smallest, slight endeavor. 

For to sew our youthful ears up while we stoned 
the solemn frog. 
Drove the water-snake to cover, 
Searched for nests of snipe and plover, 

Or we knee-deep waded in to catch the frisky 
polliwog. 




DOWN- ALONG T?IE LITTLE BROOKLET. 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 21 

" Tinkle, tink," the cows were comin' 
Through the dingle where the hummin' 

Of wild bees once give idea thet a bee-tree was 
at hand — 
'Neath the maples in the holler, 
Where one fall we earned a dollar, 

Diggin' ginseng where it flourished in the rich 
and leafy sand. 

Then it was a rainy Sunday, 
Saturday er mebbe Monday, 

When we donned our father's overcoat and 
started down the lane — 
Ruther likin' the sensation, 
Kind o' courtin' approbation, 

Fur the feat of drivin' cattle from the pastur' in 
the rain. 

At the bars we stopped and listened, 
W^hile each leaf and grass-blade glistened 

With the moisture that was tricklin' from our 
nose and chin and hair, 
Little ruther hoped we wouldn't, 
And was better pleased we couldn't 

Hear the tinkle of the cowbell on the damp and 
foggy air. 

Fur what chances fur sight-seein' ! 
There was double chance of bein' 

Bears and painters, wolves and wild cats, 
crouchin' neath the bushes dank. 



22 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

What if all the wild creation 
Hid there in the vegetation, 

And would make one swoop upon us ! — but our 
spirit never shrank. 

Fur what glor'ous pools of water, 
That we should not — but we oughter, 

Wade right through to get the cattle at the fur 
side of the lot; 
And, then, what a splendid wettin' 
Fell to us fur jes' a-gettin' 

Cattle round among the bushes where we knowed 
that they was not. 

Then the cowbell's " tinkle, tinkle " 
Changed our tactics in a twinkle. 

And we rounded up the cattle in the most ap- 
proved style, 
And we started from the pastur', 
Splashin' 'long a trifle faster, 

Lookin' out fur bears and painters in the bushes 
all the while. 

Why, of course, we didn't sight 'em, 
So we didn't have to fight 'em. 

But we tinkle, tinkle, tinkled to the barnyard with 
the kine. 
Very wet and quite contented, 
P'haps to be well complimented. 

And escape from further labor, which was very, 
very fine. 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 23 

So, it seemed and kep' a seemin', 
As I lay there sweetly dreamin', 

While the cattle with their cowbell was a-tearin' 
at my corn. 
Fur I found out in the mornin' 
That my cattle had ben " cornin','' 

While I had dreamed the sweetest dream I've 
dreamed sence I was born. 



COW TIME 

Cow time ; and in October, in the days of long ago. 
Come, Shep, old fellow, hurry up; I think you're 

very_slow ; 
But then, too, I remember, I remember with a sigh, 
That you've been dead for eighteen years and I, 

alas — well, I 
Am older by a score of years than when we used to 

roam 
Out to the fallow pasture old to drive the cattle 

home. 

So, Shep, old dog, we'll go once more while mem'ry 

still is bright; 
We'll take the path out through the woods and fetch 

the cows to-night. 
Here, you, no nonsense ! Keep behind ; you fool, 

where have you heard 



24 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

That shepherd dogs are swift enough to catch a yel- 
low bird ? 

What, found a track? I guess you have — a wood- 
chuck's, I declare. 

Ah, here's his hole. Go for him, Shep ! We'll have 
him out of there. 

Wait, dog; stand back, right where you are; I'll 
show that chuck a trick. 

Stand back, I say, and wait a bit ; I'll poke him with 
a stick. 

Jab! jab! It's deep, that woodchuck hole; see how 
it twists and bends. 

Oh ! there he runs ! I should have known — some 
chuck holes have two ends. 

I'm down ; no matter, get him, Shep ! He ran up on 
that knoll. 

No use, come back; just as I thought, he's got an- 
other hole. 

Come on. Hello ! I didn't know the burs were 

open yet. 
Lie down, old dog, I'll take a climb, there's chestnuts 

here to get, 
A pocket full ; that's pretty good, I've something 

now to chew. 
You w^ag your tail ; do you want some ? Do dogs 

like chestnuts, too? 
Well, take a couple; now we'll go. Hi! there's a 

squirrel; now we 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 25 

Must catch him. Pshaw ! He's got away up in 
a hemlock tree, 

And we have lost him. Let him go. Now here's 

the pasture bars ; 
You find the cows and fetch 'em up, or we will see 

the stars 
Before we see the milking yard; it's plump a half 

a mile; 
So, sick 'em, Shep, and round 'em up and I will rest 

me while 
I eat this Seek-no-further and this Pippin that I 

found 
Out in that pile of apples where they're lying on the 
ground. 

Ah, here you come. Have you them all? Here's 

Speckle, Spot and Jess, 
Old Brownie, Molly, Lill and Dot, but not old bell 

cow, Bess. 
So, sir, go back and find that cow; come, lively! 

You can tell 
Just where she is, for she's the cow that wears the 

copper bell. 
Some dogs know lots ; he won't be long. I hear the 

bell, I think, 
Down in the hollow by the spring where she has 

stopped to drink. 

There, there! Don't run her; steady, now! Her 
heels — don't bite her nose. 



26 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

She's through; just start them down the lane — I've 

g-ot the bars to close — 
And then we'll drive 'em slowly home, and stop our 

dreamy song, 
For driving cows is not for men, nor dogs that's 

dead so long. 



SAA/[ PURDY'S HUSKIN' BEE. 

Late years most all huskin' is done in the field. 
Or by huskin' machines, when markets and yield 
Will warrant expense. It ain't often that we 
Are asked to a reg'lar old sort huskin' bee ; 
And a tickelder man I don't think could be found. 
Than I was last week, when Sam Purdy come 

round 
And invited us down; for he'd made up his mind 
That he'd have a bee of the old-fashioned kind, 
On next We'n'sday night. Of course we all went. 
Old-fashioneder evening I never have spent. 

The corn was all picked and piled on the barn floor, 
From the lean-to on back to the big rollin' door ; 
And a seat had been fixed out of beehives and 

planks 
At the edge of the pile; while beyond the big bank 
Of corn had been rigged out of boards a long bin. 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 2/ 

That after we stripped 'em the ears were thrown in. 
Some forks, handle first, had been thrust in the hay 
That walled up the barn at the side of the bay. 
And the pumpkins that stuck on the fork tines so 

bright, 
Each held up a candle to furnish us light. 

It was eight when the seat was well loaded with 

men, 
But they kept droppin' in till between nine and ten ; 
So the husks piled behind us, and O, what a din 
The naked ears made as they fell in the bin ! 
While we talked as we worked, of the weather and 

crops. 
Of the price of potatoes and apples and hops. 
Of politics, too, of free silver and gold ; 
And Sam passed some " hardware " to keep out the 

cold — 
Which practice, at bees, some condemn as not right ; 
But most took a little and no one got tight. 

At 'leven, we finished and argered a while 

The number of bushels of ears in the pile ; 

" Three hundred and fifty! " " four hundred! " said 

some. 
It wasn't decided when Purdy said, " Come, 
The women are waitin' to give us a bite." 
Then we all follered him to the house where a light 
Was placed in the woodshed, nearby to a tub 
Of lukewarm soft water. A wash, and a rub 



28 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

On a towel, and we marched with the wilhngest 

feet 
To the long kitchen table, where all found a seat, 
And made, like an army, a valiant attack 
Upon the good victuals piled up like a stack. 

There was apple pie, pumpkin pie, cookies and cake. 
Cream cheese and corn bread of Mis' Purdy's rare 

make, 
Baked beans, mashed potatoes and juicy boiled ham. 
Hot biscuit and coffee and raspberry jam. 
Did we make out a meal? Well, we did, as we 

ought. 
Then adjourned to the woodshed, where Sam come 

and brought 
New pipes and tobacker for such as would smoke. 
There, many a story and many a joke 
Were told 'ere we bid ev'rybody good-night, 
And started away from the circle of light 
Toward our homes. I'll allow it's not much of 

a yarn, 
But years were lived over in Sam Purdy's barn. 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 29 

THE FALL CRICKET. 

Some evening, before the sweet languor of summer 
Has once more succumbed to the cool breath of 
fall 

Down deep in the grasses and thick vines and bushes 
He chirps, and we hear his prophetical call. 

'' The summer is waning," he mournfully tells us, 
" The roses and daisies are fading away ; 

Already the night laps its dusky wings over 
The hour that was yesterday part of the day. 

" 'Tis coming, 'tis coming — October is coming. 
The month of cool nights and bright sunny days, 

Of many-hued forests, good cheer, autumn fulness, 
To close amid frost and sad, leaf-strown high- 
ways. 

" I'm with you, I'll tarry, right under your window 
You'll hear my low voice with its metal-like ring, 

Till bats, birds and insects, save me, have retreated ; 
Clear into November I'll merrily sing; 

'* Take comfort, be merry, life has but one journey, 
Live, love and be happy, bless God for your home, 

Close doors and draw shades, snuggle up to the 
fireside, 
And hear my farewell, for my going has come." 



30 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 



OUR THANKSGIVING. 

Betsey and I have been nowheres ; we've worked 

all summer hard, 
So's I was lookin' round one day and come across 

a card, 
I said to Betsey, '' Now, look here, I think I heard 

you say 
You'd kinder like to go somewhere on next Thanks- 

givin' day; 
I've found the card that Chester left when they was 

here in June 
And July and in August, and they said they hoped 

that soon 
They'd have the chance to welcome us, when we'd 

a-mind to come 
To visit them and see the sights around their city 

home. 



When Cousin Chester's folks was here, I liked 'em 

very well, 
Although his wife was pretty nice, and he was quite 

a swell ; 
'Twas funny, too, to see their girls, all drest in 

summer silk. 
Each with her little silver cup a-taggin' you for 

milk. 
But that was just their city way; they knew we 

didn't mind. 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 3 1 

And when we go to see them, we'll a rousing wel- 
come find. 

Now I propose we hustle round and do up all our 
work, 

And go and spend Thanksgiving with our cousins 
in New York." 

Well, Betsey quite agreed with me; that very day 
I wrote 

To tell 'em we was comin' on the We'nesday even- 
ing boat. 

I went down to Si Smith's that night to buy a butter 
pail. 

So thought I'd post my letter when I stopped to get 
my mail. 

There was a letter there for me; "New York," the 
postmark said; 

I opened it right there and then, and this is what 
I read : 

" Dear Cousins : If myself and wife and children 
are alive, 

We'll reach Smithville railroad depot on Wednes- 
day, half-past five. 

Please meet us at tlie station with wagon or with 
sleigh, 

For we will come to see you and spend Thanks- 
giving day." 

I didn't post my letter when I got through readin' 
that, 



32 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

For the name wrote at the bottom was Chester A. 

Surratt. 
If they was comin' to our house, of course, we must 

stay home 
To fix for 'em. Yes, Betsey was disappointed some ; 
While she was gittin' supper I thought I heard her 

sigh, 
And I'm pretty certain that I saw a tear stand in 

her eye. 
But Betsey's reputation as a hostess was at stake ; 
There were pies and cakes and puddings and other 

things to make; 

She'd no time for disappointment or feelin' down 

and blue, 
She knew she had this work on hand, and she would 

do it, too. 
When We'nesday afternoon had come, 'long 'bout 

half-past four. 
She took me to the butt'ry and opened up the door. 
Well, now ! I've heard of groanin' boards and 

tables all my life. 
But butt'ry shelves just laugh out loud when loaded 

by my wife. 
I can't tell you the things I saw when lookin' at that 

load, 
I jumped into my wagon and started down the road, 

For to fetch home Cousin Chester, his wife and 
daughters three. 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 33 

They was there, and home I fetched 'em all as happy 

as could be. 
Well, the next day was Thanksgiving, and we had 

such a feast, 
But she that had prepared the spread enjoyed her- 
self the least; 
For she had to wait on others, and when the feast 

was done. 
And we went into the parlor then to have a little 

fun, 
Dear Betsey wasn't with us, she must wash the 

dishes all. 
While Chester's daughter sung a song — something 

about a ball. 



What with washin' up the dishes and fixin' supper, 

too, 
Betsey's visitin' minutes were pretty thin and few. 
The comp'ny had a good time, though, they stayed 

till after ten. 
They asked us to come and see 'em, over and over 

again. 
They said they would come next summer, when 

I saw 'em on the train; 
There wa'n't any doubt about that, but I didn't 

speak so plain ; 
But told 'em we'd expect 'em, and when the train 

moved on, 
I s'pose 'twas mean, but I was glad the company was 

gone. 



34 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

'Twas something after 'leven when I got into the 

house, 
My wife was settin' in a chair as still as any mouse. 
When I set down she come and perched herself 

upon my knee, 
And then she done a thing she hain't since eighteen 

eighty-three. 
She cried for fifteen minutes, sobbin' tenderly and 

low; 
When I asked of the matter, she answered kinder 

slow 

" I thought — I hoped — I wished so much " — and 

then she raised her head, 
'' I think — I knoiv I'm very tired, I guess I'll go 

to bed." 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 35 



AT NIGHT WHEN THE CHORES IS 
DONE. 

There ain't much rest fur a farmer from spring 

to end of summer ; 
If he keeps his work up snug and tight he's got to 

be a hummer. 
He ain't got time to set around and think of takin' 

pleasure 
When twelve to sixteen hours he gits of laber's 

fullest measure. 
But along late in October when the leaves hev 

tumbled down. 
An' the woods an' fields an' hillsides are all turnin' 

dry and brown, 
When his appetite is sure to be in keepin' with the 

season. 
An' calls fur roast pertaters, pork an' pancakes out 

of reason, 
Then life is worth the livin', for he's bound to hev 

some fun 
When he knocks off work an' goes th' house, at 

night when the chores is done. 

In November when a feller is a-plowin' ev'ry day, 
Er December when he's thrashin' rye er drawin' off 

his hay, 
Perhaps, jest to accommodate, he helps a neighbor 

kill, 
4 



36 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Er drives ten miles to market, er takes some grain 

to mill. 
At all events he's whackin' round all day out in the 

cold — 
That's nuthin', fur we're ust to it, we farmers young 

and old. 
Tain't long hours that he's 'fraid of, an' exposure 

makes him tough. 
But when the day draws toward its close, an' wind 

gits cold an' rough. 
He surely is excusable fur lookin' at the sun, 
An' longin' fur to git th' house, at night when the 

chores is done. 



I tell you, when the cattle all hev been put in an' 

fed, 
The sheep shut up, an' colts an' horses from the 

water led. 
An' stand in straw up to their knees, a-grindin' 

grain and hay. 
When do#rs are shut, to you has come the best part 

of the day. 
What care you fur the driftin' snow when all is 

snug and warm? 
You set down by the kitchen fire an' listen to the 

storm, 
An' smell the sassage fryin' — the pretty cook's your 

wife — 
An' wonder how it comes that some don't like a 

farmer's life ; 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 37 

Then Johnnie wants to tell you what he learnt to 
school that day, 

Er Jennie tells about her pullet that has just begun 
to lay. 

You're delighted with their chatter an' yer pleas- 
ure's just begun, 

While yer waitin' fur yer supper, at night when the 
chores is done. 

The city man, fur all of me, can set around his 

heater. 
An' read by electricity er gaslight from a meter. 
Perhaps he'll warm his slippered feet by steam in 

copper things. 
An' figger on the currency his store or office brings, 
But as fur me, when, supper o'er, I draw a little 

nigher 
Up to the stove and poke at it to git a better fire, 
'Taint strikes, er stocks, er panic times that ever 

bothers me; 
I read my weekly paper with my children on my 

knee. 
My stocks is in my cellar an' I'm bound to have 

some fun 
When I set down after supper, at night when the 

chores is done. 



38 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

DAN'S CELLAR AND MINE. 



A TALE OF HARD TIMES. 

I've never seen such times, I growled; never, not 

sence I was born. 
Had a rompin' crop of Lijun, but there ain't no sale 

fur corn; 
Planted a lot o' potaters — got 'bout a third of a 

crop — 
Then 'fore I got 'em to market — bang! they het to 

go an' drop, 
Along with our rye, an' buckwheat, an' butter an' 

eggs an' oats. 
An' our beef an' pork. Now tell me the use of 

us raisin' shotes 
At four an' a half a hundred, fur pork when the 

hogs are fat, 
Er fruit at fifty cents er less, the bar'l throwed in 

at that. 

Hay market's b'en doin' middlin' well, an' there 
you are again ! 

I hadn't much hay on my place — zvc suffered for 
want o' rain ; 

Jes' so I kep on a-frettin', an' lower my sperrits 
sank. 

Till I was a grunt-me-growley — a regular hard- 
times crank ; 

Till I went one time to market — 'twas a cold Decem- 
ber day — 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 39 

An' took along some apples an' some eggs to pay 

my way. 
My eggs went quick; I sold 'em all, an' begun to 

look around, 
But a man a-wantin' apples wasn't quite so easy 

found. 

Still, I hadn't many unsold toward night, when the 

wind grew keen, 
An' I fur home was pullin' straight, when there on 

the street I seen 
A man who once had lived our way ; out with us he 

used to till 
A farm, but he had moved to town to work into 

a mill. 
" Here, Dan," calls I, " come, buy these Spitz, I 

ain't got but a few, 
Pretty nigh onto a bar'l full, an' I'll sell 'em cheap 

to you." 
Dan come over to my wagon, from the sidewalk 

where he stood — 
I noticed he had on old cloe's, and wasn't a-lookin' 

good. 

Says he, " Ben, I'd like them apples, fur we hain't 

a one at home. 
But I ain't got a cent to pay, an' yer pay has got 

to come." 
I said, '' I'll wait till pay day, Dan." The poor 

feller give a smile, 



40 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

An' said, '' Ben, if you wait fur that, you will haf 

to wait awhile ; 
The mill shut down three months ago — ' hard 

times,' so the owners said, 
An' sence that time I've done odd jobs — almost 

anything for bread. 
Sometimes we have it, then agin there isn't a single 

cent 
To buy us bread an' potaters, not to mention coal 

an' rent." 

I felt that I must say somethin'. " How's yer wife 

an' boys? " says I. 
" Wife is sick an' children hungry," an' poor Dan 

begun to cry. 
Gee — mo — nee! a cryin' woman's bad enough, all 

men agree, 
But a cryin' man's a settler; an' his whimperin' 

settled me, 
" You git in here, Dan," I blubbered, " show me to 

the house you rent." 
He got in, an', sayin' nothin', round to DanTs house 

we went. 
'' Now," says I, '' out with them apples, ketch the 

bar'l right by the chines ! " 
So we did, an' in that cellar I seen somethin' like 

hard times. 

Nothin', absolutely nothin', 'cept a half a loaf of 
bread, 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 4^ 

P'rhaps a dozen small potaters, an' a piece of cab- 
bage head. 

Wait, there zcas two sticks of kindlin', an' a peck 
er so of coal — 

That was ev'rything- there was there, in that city 

cellar hole. 
I went home a-thinkin' deeply, all that seven miles 

of drive. 
An' come mighty near concludin' that the meanest 

man alive 

Was a-settin' in my wagon. Here I'd b'en a growl- 
ing crank, 

An' b'en cnssin' all creation, when I'd every canse 
to thank 

The good Lord fnr many blessin's. Well, I drove 

in home all right. 
After dark, bnt Jane was waitin' fur to help me 

with a light, ^ 

An' when my team was blanketed, an was stabled 

safe and sound, 

I took the light that Jane had brought, an' I had 
a look around. 

Ten Jersey cows, all thoroughbred, was stanch- 
ioned in a row, 

A pair of colts an' twenty sheep was housed from 
the cold an' snow. 

An' while my mows wan't like some years, jest 
a-bilin' over full, 

I didn't lack fur feed enough, hay, grain and stalks 
to pull 



42 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

My live stock through till pasture come; with a 

chance of some to sell. 
Then, havin' seen to ev'rything, an' findin' that all 

was well, 
I made a break for my supper, passin', as I went 

along, 
My chicken house full of Leg'orns, full a hundred 

pullets strong, 
A. pigpen an' a crib of corn, the same that I couldn't 

sell 
Last fall — I didn't care that night, I thought it was 

just as well; 
An' last a smokehouse full of meat — smoke came 

from every vent — 
As I walked past to the kitchen, and down in the 

cellar went. 

I took an inventory quick of my cellar standin' 

there. 
I'd seen a hard times cellar, mind, that day, an' I 

declare 
I didn't know we had so much ; nor where we had 

got it all. 
We hadn't stocked our cellar up no more'n we'd 

any fall, 
But there was bar'ls of apples, maybe twenty, one 

of pork, 
A dozen of fine potaters ; an' to see the women's 

work — 
Why, that swing shelf in our cellar was jes' loaded 

with canned fruit ; 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 43 

We had four big- jars of butter, an' a great cream 
cheese to boot. 

And I — I come right out o' there, fur I couldn't 

stand no more. 
What right had I — old grumble-put — to be hoardin' 

up a store 
While folks in the towns was starvin' ? O, my 

head w^as all a-buzz ; 
I thought I knowed, but I didn't realize what hard 

times wuz. 
We farmers ain't got the money that we had some 

years ago, 
We can't spread ourselves so muchly, w^e can't make 

quite so much show; 
But there's one thing we arc sure of — a good livin', 

that is it — 
The thing we all strive an' work for — that's all the 

best of us git. 



44 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

"COLD, AIN'T IT?" 

The morning was a cold one, that I knew beyond 

a doubt, 
So I made my preparations before I started out; 
Put on my warmest ulster and turned up its collar 

rare, 
Then in overshoes and mittens sought the keen and 

frosty air. 

First I met was Uncle Dan'l, man of color, old and 

grave, 
And he greeted me politely; then this information 

gave — 

"Cold, ain't it?" 

Then came Jenkins ; he's a farmer, riding on a load 

of hay, 
Swath'd in felts and shawls and mufflers, yet he 

found a voice to say — 
"Cold, ain't it?" 

Pretty little widow Collyer, going up to Smith's 

for milk, 
Paused just long enough to murmur from beneath 

her hood of silk — 

" Cold, ain't it?" 

The stamp clerk, from his window, gave to me a 
pleasant smile. 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 45 

As he handed me my letter, piping out in parrot 
style — 

" Cold, ain't it? " 

My barber, while he shaved me, my groc'ry keeper, 

too, 
Indeed, ev'ry one that knew me kept the fact held 

up to view — 

"Cold, ain't it?" 

Soon I began to ponder and discovered with sur- 
prise 

That my neighbors must be thinking me all foolish, 
or all wise, 

With their—" Cold, ain't it? " 

Why! I knew beyond denial that it was a frosty 

day, 
But they must have thought I didn't when they 

hastened all to say — 
"Cold, ain't it?" 

Still they recognized my wisdom and the knowledge 

I had got, 
When they told me it was frosty and then asked me 

if 'twas not, 

With their—" Cold, ain't it? " 



46 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

'BOUT TAX TIME. 

Long about first of Feb'ry, er before, there comes 

a spell 
When the farmers round here begin to hustle; you 

c'n tell 
Then who's forehanded, fur ev'ry one of us want 

some cash, 
An' there ain't very many farmers but what feel 

the lash 

Of poverty — 'bout Tax Time. 

Of course, there's some fellers, pretty well fixed, 

don't mind the drain ; 
But they're pretty mid'lin' sca'ce that ain't obliged 

to strain 
Themselves jest a little, when the collector comes 

around ; 
There ain't any puttin' the thing ofif, the money 

must be found, 

To settle with — 'bout Tax Time. 

Some of us have a habit of haulin' out wood to sell ; 
Some put up pigs er beef critters an' feed 'em pretty 

well. 
An' turn 'em into money along with some oats er 

hay — 
I tell you the road to market's hot, jest before the 

day 

We must git there — 'bout Tax Time. 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 47 

I know it's all well an' right ; we'd ought to pay our 

share 
Tow'rds keepin' things a-runnin' ; but I sometimes 

wonder where 
The mortga^<?<:'^^ hide their money bags so's not to 

pay no tax, 
While mortgao-or^- most haf to sell the coats from 

off their backs 

To raise the wind — 'bout Tax Time. 

Seems when a man pays int'rest, an' that's what 

most of us do, 
He'd ought to be protected from payin' all taxes, 

too; 
I don't see how we're to mend it, maybe the future 

will, 
But I think the future'll find us hustlin' for money 

still, 

For collectors — 'bout Tax Time. 



48 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 



PUZZLED. 

Feb'ry second's long been set apart 
Ez a sort of breathin' place, to start 
Havin' more winter, er havin' less, 
That all depends — an' I must confess 
To its puzzlin' me. 

Is it " Candlemas," that second day, 
Er jes '' Calamuss " ? I've heard folks say 
The word both ways, so I never know, 
An' 'tween the two I blunderin' go. 
Fur they puzzle me. 

On Cal? — Candlemas, sojiie beast comes out 
Of his winter hole to gaze about. 
'E he sees his shadder, the story old 
Says : '' Back he goes from frost an' cold.'' 
It don't puzzle him. 

If the day should be cloudy, then he 
Is jes' as happy as he c'n be ; 
Eur winter's over; the snow will melt, 
'N' he'll fill that vacume 'neath his pelt; 
That's puzzlin' him. 

Now, I ruther hold the brute's a bear ; 
There's them says " woodchuck " — 
I don't care — 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 49 

Maybe he is. Which? I don't know. 
Very much further' n that I can't go, 
Fur it puzzles me. 

Another base fur dispute I've found : 
How many times does the beast turn 'round, 
'Fore he views the sun? Some say 'leven. 
Others contend it's only seven. 
An' that puzzles me. 

He never moves till eggsactly noon; 
One minute before would be too soon. 
Does he know that noon on Plymouth rock, 
At the Golden Gate, means nine o'clock ? 
Don't that puzzle him? 

Did he see his shadder, Saturday? 
He did, an' didn't, I heard 'em say ; 
If 'twas seen in Troy, an' not in Maine, 
The first'U have frost, the latter rain. 
Fur to puzzle 'em. 

They'll be plantin' in Ontario, 

While Jersey stan's to her neck in snow. 

Dakota will have her sowin' done 

'Fore the ice-bound streams of Ohio run; 

Woh't that puzzle 'em? 

There's compensation; the brute is old; 
Some day he will ketch his death of cold. 



50 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

We'll block his hole so he can't git out 
To see what the Feb'ry sun's about; 
That will puzzle him. 



THE WEATHER PROPHETS. 

Round the stove at the village store 

On a chilly night, sat half a score 

Of friends and neighbors ; they were all 

Tillers of soil from spring to fall, 

All interested in every way 

In the current markets of the day, 

In butter and cheese, and wheat and oats, 

In fat'ning cattle and wint'ring shotes. 

All anxious to hear of the price of rye, 

All praying for rain ; for the ground was dry. 

All elderly men were they, and wise 

In studying signs in earth and skies, 

Of coming storm or lasting drouth, 

And these are the ways they found them out: 

'' A storm is comin'," said Mr. White, 

'' For the black on the kettle burnt to-night." 

'' A storm is brewin'," cried Mr. Green, 

'' For this unfailin' sign I've seen — 

My pigs have been makin' nests of hay. 

And fixin' things for a rainy day." 

" And I," chimed in good Deacon Wright, 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. $1 

'' I heard my roosters crow las' night; 

I told Jane Ann 'twould surely blow, 

Er rain, er hail, er maybe snow." 

" There is no doubt," spoke up Squire Brown, 

" For 's I was comin' home from town. 

The dust kep' rollin' toward the right, 

Instid of left ; that tells a sight 

About a storm that's comin' soon." 

Said Jabez Smith, '' To-night's new moon 

'S a wet one." '' Yes," broke in a friend; 

'• 'Tis all of that; stands on its end; 

It can't hold water ; 'twill run out 

Upon the earth without a doubt." 

" My dog e't grass," observed John Spoon. 

Some one had heard a screaming loon 

And squaking goose. All did their share 

To coax the storm from out its lair. 

The storm must come, what could prevent? 

'Twas pass'd upon without dissent 

By one and all before their flight 

To diff'rent homes to spend the night. 



The morning came all bright and warm. 
Without a semblance of a storm ; 
Fair weather held for full a week, 
And if one to the seers would speak, 
The seer w^ould say without a smile, 
" It will be dry yet for awhile ; 
That storm 'twas comin' ? You git out ! 
The best of signs fail in a drouth." 
5 



52 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 



SOMEWHAT SELFISH. 

Me and my comfort ain't the hull thing. Fll own 

right up to that. 
Other fellers don't like the clo'es I wear, others 

don't like my hat, 
An' there's some that take exception to the way I 

dress my feet. 
The mixed tobacker that I smoke, an' the things 

I like to eat. 
Most folks like a kind o' weather, nigh all of 'em 

likes it fair — 
Not too hot, but sort o' coolish, with a gently stirrin' 

air. 
As fur me — I like all weather, come it cold, come 

wet, come warm; 
But fur downright keen enjoyment, jes' give me 

a blizzard storm. 
I s'pose I'm kind o' selfish, an' out o' the general 

run, 
Fur there's lots of men that don't regard a blizzard 

as much fun, 
Ner I don't believe I would myself, that is, if I was 

out, 
An' was tired, an' cold, an' hungry, an' was drivin' 

with about 
Ten miles of road before me. No, them ain't the 

times that strike 
Me as so very joyous. But I'll tell you what I like — 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 53 

It's to keep watch of the weather when we've got 

a foot er so 
Of snow that's dry and dusty — to begin to see it go, 
Sort o' curhn' off the corners of the barn roof, an' 

the trees. 
When the wand that's shifted to the west ain't much 

more than a breeze, 
But increasin' ev'ry minute, tiU the air is full of 

snow, 
Pilin' up in sheltered places, makin' mount'ins in 

a row ; 
Throwin' fences, tossin' branches, roarin', tearin', 

ridin' high, 
Mostobliteratin' landscapes, flyin' mad acrostthe sky, 
Rattlin' doors an' shakin' shutters, searchin' crev- 
ices an' cracks, 
Drivin' sheep aroiuid the straw stack, lodgin' on 

the cattle's backs. 
Then we muffle up an' stagger through the snow 

banks, 'gainst the wind, 
Gaspin', strugglin', hustlin', bustlin', out o' breath 

an' almost blind. 
Till we reach the shelt'rin' stable, time fur chores 

an' almost night. 
Stable, feed an' shake dow^i beddin', see that all is 

snug an' tight. 
Then to house, an easy matter, fur the wind is on 

our backs, 
Breakin' paths — fur Mr. Blizzard long has covered 

up our tracks. 



54 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Now a visit to the pigpen, pail o' water, box o' 

wood ; 
Then begins the very minute that a bhzzard does 

me good. 

Fur I set before the stove hearth, comfortable, snug 

an' warm, 
Heark'nin' to the moanin' chimbley, listenin' to the 

howlin' storm. 
Somewhat selfish? Yes, I know it, so is ev'ry man 

you strike. 
Some men don't enjoy a blizzard, neither are all 

men alike. 



TIME TO QUIT. 

I zvas considered sonic on prophesyin' weather — 
Jes' give me one sweepin' look — I could tell whether 
It would rain er snow, accordin' to the season, 
An' I never made perdictions 'thout a reason. 
Come a lemon-colored sundown aiged with 

sam'un — 
Call it weather-wisdom, instinct, call it gammon, 
Ez you please — / said, Ol' Mister West is comin' ; 
An' he always did, an' set all things a-hummin'. 
But I've quit. 

Red sunrises was another special feature; 
An' if I do say it, there wa'n't a creature 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 55 

Livin' and breathin' as could beat me seein' rings 
Around the sun er moon — sundogs an' such like 

things. 
When watchin' on Can'lmas day, I spec'ly shone; 
Fur careless ones never'd notice, an' I alone 
Hed the honor of tellin' if the bear come out, 
An' went back in his hole, er kep' stay in' about. 
But I've quit. 

When it come to readin' hogs' melts, T was there, 

depend — 
Thin, thick er bulgin, at one er the other end. 
One kin foretell sights o' weather when he's killin' 

hogs. 
Almost as much as watchin' Feb'uary fogs — 
Which means — but there, I've said that I would 

never 
Perdict ag'in. / that once was thought so clever 
By all of my friends an' neighbors an' by myself, 
Hes jes' gone out o' bizness, an' crawled onto the 

shelf^ 

Fur I've quit. 

" Lookouts " a-givin' cries, er s wallers fly in' low. 
White-coated snowbirds round, fetchin' a storm of 

snow. 
Smoke a-fallin' down, the same as a lump o' lead. 
Pigs a-carryin' straws to make a stormy bed. 
Mare tails crossin' the sky, thunder heads in the 

west. 



56 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

White frosts an' holler air — they all kin take a rest. 
Folks lies got out o' me all the weather they'll git. 
Mebbe they'll come ask me — I won't let up a bit. 
Fur I've quit. 

Fve quit because the newspapers are publishin' each 

day 
What they've heard some dude in Washin'ton er 

Philadelphy say; 
To wit: ''High winds will rage to-day on the 

Pacific coast, 
In Canady they'll shiver, an' in Floridy they'll 

roast ; 
They's an airie of low pressure along the Yaller- 

stone. 
Of all the States, 'twill rain in Injeanny jes' alone. 
Drouth continues in Kintuckey, an' in Maine the 

pressure's high, 
'Twill be cool in Minnesota, an' the Gulf States will 

be dry." 

Yes, I've quit. 

So what's the use of tryin' to be keen an' weather- 
wise. 

An' studyin', fur nothin' 'tall, the earth, the air an' 
skies. 

When folks git their patent weather in the papers 
ev'ry day. 

Why, I've heard 'em right afore me, talkin' to each 
other, say, 

" Uncle Eben isn't in it prophesyin' any more; 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 57 

Git yer weather from the papers er the notice at the 
store." 

Then I turn away in sorrow, but there's one thought 
does me good : 

A prophet's seldom honored in his native neighbor- 
hood. 

So he quits. 



THE LUNACY OF CYRUS KENT. 

It must have ben twenty years ago sence Sam Black 

sez to me : 
''Cy Kent is a-gittin crazy." ''No!" ''Well, 

that he is/' sez he. 
" He's went an' gone right off his head." " Why, 

what hes he done? " sez I. 
" Done ! 'tain't no one but a crazy man 'twould ever 

go an' buy 
Two hundred of young, sour churry trees, an' set 

'em out in rows 
Up onto that stony ridge of his where nothin' ever 

grows 
Exceptin' some quack an' Johns w^ort, boss sorrel 

an' golden-rod ; 
But here this 'ere precious lunatic's ben tearin' up 

the sod 
An' plantin' it out to churries; it's a notion that 

he's got, 



58 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

An' he'll foller out his notion to his ruin, like as 

not; 
Fur black knot an' cat-a-pillers, an' them worms 

that eats up fruit, 
Will take in his little churry trees an' Cy Kent's 

cash to boot." 



Ner it wasn't only Black alone who 'lowed that 

Kent was rash, 
Fur we all lived on an' waited fur to see him go to 

smash. 
But never a bit would that Kent smash, as we all 

thought he would, 
Tho' each of us argered with him fur to show him 

where he stood. 
But he still kep' on a-plantin' — apples, churries, 

plums an' pears; 
Jes' a-mindin' his own bizness, tendin' to his own 

affairs, 
Which was diggin', prunin', trimmin'. Seemed his 

work was never done, 
Fur he went to fertilizin', an' with somethin' like 

a gun 
Was a-squirtin' pizened water, which he said would 

kill the bugs, 
Curculiars, cat-a-pillers, animalculers and slugs ; 
But when he got 'round to '' Fungies," in a confi- 

denshall tone, 
Then it was too much. We fled an' left that lunatic 

alone. 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 59 

Which we've ben a-doin' sence then, fur we couldn't 
see the sense 

Of his buyin' bone an' potash, an' his goin' to ex- 
pense, 

Doin' somethin' that his father ner his neighbors 
never done; 

But this mild lunatic worked on an' let us have our 
fun. 

Well, of late years it's ben whispered that Kent 
wasn't crazy quite; 

That of churries, pears an' apples he was selhn' of 
a sight. 

An' we met him joggin' homeward summer evenin's 
on the road, 

With a stack of empty baskets after marketin' a 
load. 

Fur he hed a load to market purty nearly ev'ry day, 

An' it wasn't very long before the folks begun to 
say: 

" Cy Kent is a-gittin' wealthy, so he is, now, did 
you hear? 

Why, his income from his orchards is two thousand 
every year." 

''Great Scott!" "Yes, sir, let me tell you what 
I heard ol' Sam Black say — 

That Kent could draw his check fur twenty thou- 
sand any day." 

An' that same ol' meddlin' rascal'd used his neigh- 
bors fur a tool 



6o SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

To advertise fur fifteen years that Cy Kent fur a 

fool; 
An' now, sence Cy hes got there with his brains 

an' by his phick, 
This same ol' Black goes a-tellin' round it's only 

Cy Kent's luck. 



OLD JIM. 



What! that old black horse in the corner stall, 

knock him in the head, you say? 
No! no! Old Jim's too good a beast to find his 

end that way. 
Ain't wuth his keep? Well, I know that, hain't 

ben fur cjuite a space, 
But as long's I've got a stable floor, Old Jim shall 

have a place; 
There's Dolly an' Fan an' Dandy, Duke an' Dapple 

an' Bess, 
Good beasts as there is around here, an' a little 

better, I guess. 
Yet with all their glossy beauty, deep flanks an' 

strength of limb. 
They don't come up to what he was, that rack 

o' bones. Old Jim. 
It's twenty years an' over sence I put him to the 

plow : 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 6l 

Let's see, 'twas back in '69; he's five and twenty 



now. 



It wa'n't no trouble to break him, he was so good 

an' kind, 
But at runnin' an' trottin' an' puhin' his hke was 

hard to find. 
Too good a horse, folks said he was, to always stay 

to home, 
So when he was six years old, I think, we 'tended 

fair at Rome. 

I entered him in the " forty " class fur farmers' 

horses there, 
An' he won the purse in " thirty-eight," trottin' it 

fair an' square. 
I could 'ave had big money then, the sports all 

wanted him, 
But 'twa'n't no use to talk to me, I wouldn't part 

with Jim. 
Never was sick in his life, was Jim, always ready to 

work, 
Kep' up his end of the whipple-trees, never was 

known to shirk, 
Draw anything that had two ends ; he'd try it any- 
how 
From a cord an' a half of hic'ry wood, down to 

a subsoil plow. 
D'ye think I'd cast him off now, now that he's had 

his day? 



62 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

An' Stands there old an' feeble, not a tooth to grind 

his hay? 
Not much ! Here, Sam, give Jim a mash of that 

ground oats an' rye, 
Bring in a pail o' water and see if the critter's dry. 
When I lift my hand to kill that horse, grown old 

an' almost blind. 
It'll be when I don't know nothin' er when I've lost 

my mind. 



THIS 'ERE BROWN. 

On'ct, to a sheriff's sale of farm lands, there come 

down 
From back of Chuckamickmuck mount'in this 'ere 

Brown. 
A gandershankeder feller I hev never seen — 
Ner won't; fur he was humbly-lookin', young an' 

green. 
Tall, awk'ard, bashful, shamblin' — jest a perfec' 

clown. 

Was this 'ere Brown. 

He'd hed a little money left him — so they said, 
An' was burnin' to invest it, every red, 
In farmin' land; which give the vandue master so 
much joy, 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 63 

He clum quick knocked down ninety acres to the 

boy, 
Who, fishin' out his wahet, with the cash come 

down, 

Come this 'ere Brown. 

The first spring on there he done nothin' 'cept to 

take 
Down ah the ole stone wahs an' fences, an' to break 
The groun' each side 'em fur some twenty feet er so, 
Rootin' it up with oxen — ev'ry thing hed to go. 
Weeds, vines, brake-roots an' bushes dassent show 

a crown 

To this 'ere Brown. 



Down along the main crick Brown hed a pastur lot 
Laid to bogs an' willers, with here and there a spot 
Where pollywogs an' lizards, mud turkles an' frogs, 
Swaim 'round in the water, er sot on rotten logs, 
Peepin', pipin', croakin' : '' Knee deep " an' " You 
go roun'," 

At this 'ere Brown — 

Who showed to them amphibyans a little trick, 
By dreenin' off the stagnant water to the crick ; 
Then out he yanked them willers with his big ox 

team, 
An' in he socked his subsoil plow up to the beam, 
An' tore up twenty acres of that jet black groun', 
Did this 'ere Brown. 



64 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Next year he sot out caullyflower an' cabbage there, 
And sowed white onion seed ; then, havin' some land 

to spare. 
He planted it to celery — cared well fur all — 
An' when he come to harvest it, long in the fall. 
He smiled, ner crossed his sunburnt phiz a single 

frown — 

Smiled this 'ere Brown. 

As smile he quite well might, fur out of that 'ere lot, 
He hauled two thousand dollars' wuth; that's what 

he got 
Fur knowin' somethin' ; while us fellers all 'round 

here 
Hedn't done nothin' 'tall, 'cept to laff an' jeer 
At the book-an'-rule farmer that we thought we'd 

foun' 

In this 'ere Brown. 

There ain't no use of talkin' 'bout this Brown no 

more. 
In land he's got of acres mor'n twenty score. 
He cultivates it all, an' cultivates it well, 
Tho' 'bout how much he's wuth, we can't none of us 

tell. 
His house an' buildin's air the best fur miles 

aroun' — 

All built by Brown. 



He ain't so dum alfired green an' bashful now, 
Ner awk'ard neither ; he's got over that somehow- 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 65 

Ben supervise!;, an's assemblyman this year. 

Say, now, ain't it funny — things wih come out so 

queer ? 
Why, he's married to the hkehest gal in town, 
Is this 'ere Brown. 



A FELLER THAT I KNOW. 

Jes' an ordinary mortal is this feller that I know, 
Neither young ner old, but middlin'-like, that is, 

as ages go. 
Ain't many'd call him han'some, neither is he 

humbly, cjuite, 
Av'rige nose, eyes, an' complexion, stands up to the 

av'rige hight. 
But he's got a simple habit, not a common habit 

though. 
That sets him off from most of men — this feller 

that I know. 

He dresses same as others do, he eats an' sleeps an' 

works ; 
I s'pose within his bosom, too, old human natur' 

lurks. 
He has habits ordinary, jes' like ordinary folks. 
He ain't a tee-to-tal-er, an' his friends all know he 

smokes. 



66 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

But he's got a simple habit, not a common habit 

though, 
That sets him off from most of men — this feller 

that I know. 

He's no rabid polititian, an' fur church he's ruther 

slack. 
He's not eloquent ner learn-ed, an' he hasn't got the 

knack 
Of displayin' of his knowledge, er the sperience he's 

got— 
He'd git himself all twisted, ef he tried to, like as 

not. 
But he's got a simple habit, not a common habit 

though, 
That sets him off from most of men — this feller that 

I know. 

He ain't no tumblin' acrobat, ner neither can he 

sing, 
Ner fight, ner jump, ner rassle, ner do any such 

old thing. 
Can't row, ner shoot, ner swim, ner skate, no 

better'n lots o' men. 
Now what is his spesh-al-i-ty — his habit? Yes — 

well, then, 
His habit is to pay his debts, an' mind his biz- 

ness. O, 
I most furgot : He keeps his word — this feller that 

I know. 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 6j 



WHERE STOOD THE "WHY." 

A STRANGER, driving through a country grand, 
Sat in his cart and hstened while a fanner of the 

land 
Held forth upon the beauty of each vale, 
Hight, plain and sloping hillside, garnishing his 

glowing tale 
With lengthy dissertations on the soil, 
Which ev'ry year repaid a hundredfold the farmer's 

toil; 
But bitterly complained of how the boys 
Turned cityw^ards and there forgot their rustic lives 

and joys. 

"These farms," said he, "are fertile, ev'ry one; 

And warm; see how they're gently tilted toward 
the rising sun. 

There's scarce a field but has a living spring. 

So needful for our cattle; and another helpful- 
thing — 

We dig but thirty feet here to secure 

The best of all well water, tasteless, sparkling, cold 
and pure. 

And as to health, we don't die hereabout: 

We just stay in the harness till we slip away worn- 
out. 



68 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

'' Ah, yes ; we've many blessings ; when one sees 
Our fields of grain and clover, and our rows of 

orchard trees, 
Our houses, modern style, of brick or wood, 
Our w^ell-filled barns and gran'ries, and our stables 

warm and good, 
Our snug-built pigsties, safe from chilling breeze, 
Our sheep pens and our henroosts that are never 

known to freeze — 
One wonders why our lads don't settle down. 
And stay at home, instead of wand'ring off to live 

in town." 

The stranger raised his head and made reply : 

" Yours is a beauteous land," he said, " none will 
deny 

That wealth and rural thrift doth here abound. 

Excuse me when I ask what is the building that 
I found 

Down here a mile or so, where two roads meet; 

A hovel squat and awkward, weather-beaten, incom- 
plete, 

With loosened shingles, clapboards all awry, 

Unpainted, dirty, broken windows, toppling chim- 
ney high " — 

'' The schoolhouse ! " the astonished farmer cried. 
'' Know, then, good sir, that since long years ago 

we've always tried 
Our hand at thrift. We have hired teachers cheap; 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 69 

Who've taught and cut their firewood, built the 

fires and had to sweep. 
Of course, some claim the teaching has been lax. 
But this virtue has cheap teachers : they help keep 

down the tax. 
There's those would like to see a palace there; 
With patent seats for scholars and a cushioned 

teacher's chair. 

'' Charts, maps and globes, and all such folderol ; 
Floors all of North Car'lina pine, slate blackboards 

on the wall, 
A furnace and a ventilator slick, 
New books, to the exclusion of Daboll's arithmetic."^ 
A normal teacher, too, they would bring here. 
To take five hundred dollars from our pockets ev'ry 

year. 
But it won't work; we soon vote down such stuff; 
Where parents got their learning is for children 

good enough." 

The stranger gathered up his reins and went. 
But first he turned and toward the wondering 

farmer bent : 
'' My friend," he said, " my words intend no harm. 
But at the cross-roads stands the ' why ' your sons 

all leave the farm." 

* Daboll's arithmetic was introduced into the schools of New 
York State about 1825 ; its use was almost universal for a quarter 
of a century. 



yO SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 



A CONSERVATIVE. 

His wife said that Jones was " conservative," 

And I think he was; at least I wih give 

To Jones the l:)enefit of ev'ry donbt, 

And every trick of tongne, to help him ont, 

And say when men his memory revile, 

'' O! speak not thus of him, it was his style; 

He was conservative." 

He tilled his acres with the poorest tools, 
He took no weekly paper; and the schools 
Wonld all have closed conld he but had his way, 
The buildings gone to wreck. " It doesn't pay," 
He said, *' to cram the children's heads with stuff. 
If they can read and write, why, that's enough." 
O, thought conservative ! 

What tho' to save had always been his bent. 

What tho' he scraped and grasped for ev'ry cent, 

Not always caring for the wrong or right 

So long as gold or silver was in sight. 

What mattered it to him what men might say 

About, or to him — this was e'er his way ; 

He was conservative. 

He worked his wife to- death, indoors and out; 
She was a '' mortgage lifter," there's no doubt. 
Then Jones worked on alone, bewailing fate 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 7I 

That had deprived him of a running mate. 
Till finally there came the fatal hlow — 
In innovations he h'lieved not, you know, 
Being conservative. 

" The roads must be improved," somebody said. 

"The roads," cried Jones, "why, sir, you're mad! 

The, roads is good enough jest as they air; 

To fix 'em we've got sods an' dirt to spare. 

My father and gran'father drove afore. 

And I, till now, and I can drive 'em more, 

Tm so conservative. 

" Such tax, if laid, would be a perfect steal 

In int'rest of the dude that rides a wheel. 

A benefit! no 'tain't, that's what I say; 

We ain't a-gettin' nothin' fur our hay. 

And jist suppose we could draw bigger loads, 

More hay won't grow because we've got good 

roads ; 
It's too conservative." 

In spite of all that Neighbor Jones could do. 
The roads were rounded up, stone-surfaced too; 
The farmers drew their loads of grain that way, 
The roads were lined with " wheels " and luiggies 

gay. 
Land owners paid their tax, well satisfied. 
And Jones paid his; then went to bed and died — 
An act conservative. 



72 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 



SAM ROBBINS' AA/[BITION. 

There were leaks in Sam Robbins' shingles, 

His fences were tumbling down; 
His cattle zvould break to his neighbor's corn 

While their owner was in town. 
The weeds in this farmer's small garden patch 

Grew histy and thick and tall ; 
He cared for his plow in the furrow, where 

'Twas used the previous fall. 

For lack of a plank in his stable floor, 

A colt broke a leg in there. 
While an unused well with the cover off 

Cost the life of a likely mare. 
There were dogs he kept, of a mongrel breed. 

Sheep lived on a nearby hill ; 
Some were killed one night; Robbins' dogs did that 

And Samuel paid the bill. 

In the kitchen stove Sam's wife burned wood, 

And she always burned it green. 
'Twas a common sight, so his neighbors say, 

For the woman to be seen 
Cutting basswood logs with an old dull axe, 

That she might prepare a meal. 
Or lugging sour milk to the hog-house yard, 

To shut off a hungry squeal. 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMEiS. 73 

Now Samuel was a man of sense, 

He was quite far from a fool; 
He could talk on politics by the hour 

And knew how to run the school. 
Yet his obdurate farm never paid him, 

'Twas always too wet or too dry 
On his soil, while his neighbors were working. 

And that was his good reason why 

His grass was so spindling and weedy. 

His potatoes hard to find. 
His spring sowing lacking in grain and straw. 

His corn of the " yellow " kind. 
Well, Mis' Robbins died early, " of mortgage," 

And the sheriff took Sam's land, 
For he'd ever kept his ambition down 

Below what his frame could stand. 



UNDER THE CHURCH SHED. 

Meeting is out, and from the wide church door 
The fathers of the congregation pour; 
Their minds with orthodoxy have been fed. 
They've done their duty; now unto the shed 
Where stand the patient horses sheltered warm 
From autumn's crackling blast, or winter's storm. 
They take their way, a pleasant hour to spend 
In neighborly discussion, friend to friend, 



74 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

While waiting; for it is a goodly rule 

That wives and children in the Sabbath school 

Should spend a helpful hour; but as for men, 

They've conned those Scripture lessons time again; 

Their steps from duty never will be led, 

And — inclination leads them to the shed. 

Hands that have often met return a clasp, 

A hearty greeting given with each grasp, 

And though the day is sacred, thoughts will stray 

Into the channels of the working day. 

They stand, they sit in wagons, whittle, smoke. 

And e'en sometimes is heard a week-day joke; 

While chat of markets and of growing crops. 

Of yield of rye or barley, corn or hops 

Is welcome to each man assembled there. 

And each contributes to the chat his share; 

For though they gave the sermon full regard, 

E'en making good resolves when facts hit hard, 

But, while they believed each word the preacher 

said. 
He talked in church, whilst they are at the shed. 

There's talk of weather and of roads to fix. 
There's just a word or two of politics; 
'Tis told when Smith will raise his barn so great — 
A close one mourns about the school-tax rate. 
Men speak of Brown's young horses — how they're 

broke. 
And ask about the sick and aged folk. 
The church needs paint, they figure on the cost. 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 75 

But pause to learn about a colt that's lost, 
And of Simm's luck — he found a swarm of bees 
While hunting coons among his sugar trees. 
And then — great int'rest — on some fallow ground 
Close by, potatoes grow that weigh a pound ; 
While as for threshing, those who have it done 
Say oats are yielding seventeen to one. 



The hour speeds by. " Boom ! " goes the ancient 

bell; 
There's backing out of horses, and as well 
There is a rustling sound inside the door 
Which opens soon; the Sabbath school is o'er. 
Fair children, sisters, mothers, wives devout 
Are filling up the door and pressing out. 
Dust cloaks are donned, protecting sunshades 

spread. 
Inquiries made and cheery greetings said; 
The string of wagons move, a moment's wait; 
The first receives its load of human freight; 
Each in its turn now drives up to the block 
Tow^ard which the comely dames and damsels flock ; 
The minister with smiling face is standing nigh 
To bid each home-bound wagon load good-by. 
Soon all are gone, o'er hills and dales are sped ; 
Deserted is the church, the yard, the shed. 
If these have broken Sabbath chatting here, 
Then they are sinning fifty times a year. 
And think no harm. We will let others say. 
If any know, if they abuse the da3\ 



y(i SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 



CAUSE AND EFFECT. 

Last night, while I was resting on that bench by 

the kitchen door, 
A young man riding a wheel went by; and as I 

looked, some more 
Came whizzing down the roadside path, until half 

a dozen went — 
Young men and boys and women, all on wholesome 

pleasure bent. 
And although it is a sight w^e see each day when 

roads are good. 
Though it's very right and proper — I am thinking 

there is food 
For reflection in the matter. It is one of nature's 

laws 
That causes all must have effects, and each effect 

have cause. 
So, with bicycles as causes — almost half the world's 

a-wheel- — 
There's one effect : no hay nor grain is bought for 

steeds of steel. 
Then the horseless wagon's coming; that is certain, 

and our loads 
Will be moved by electricity along our common 

roads. 
That we ]nay have electricity in our fields, I will 

allow. 
It may sow our grain and reap it; it may drive the 

drill and plow, 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 'J'J 

But it cannot be expected that 'twill cut and haul 

our hay — 
Ah ! There won't be much to handle in that scientific 

day, 
For the animals that eat it now on farm and road 

and street, 
Will have passed into a country where the horses 

never eat; 
While the farmer, whom these causes must most 

certainly affect, 
May raise cattle, pigs and poultry, and whatever he 

elect 
To maintain them ; but 'tis certain that before this 

mighty change, 
Circumstances new, befitting, and as yet outside the 

range 
Of invention, must come to us ; and whatever they 

may be. 
Of cause and consequent effect — we can only wait 

and see. 



y^ SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 



AN ASSEMBLYMAN'S PRICE 

'Way back in the early '' forties," when railroading 

was young", 
When a mile in eighty seconds was a theme for 

ev'ry tongue, 
When politics meant purity, as all our gran'dads 

say — 
The Senate held a Webster, a Calhoun, a Henry 

Clay- 
Then a farmer from the hillsides got a legislative 

bee 
In his bonnet — not peculiar, for men get 'em, you'll 

agree. 

Well, this son of agriculture was elected, and he went 
To the New York State Assembly, where in course 

of time he spent 
An hour in conversation with a stranger from 

- below "— 
Stranger wonderfully clever, stranger sleek as 

strangers go. 
Said the stranger, " Mr. Oatfield, this steam railroad 

is a thing 
Predestined to work great wonders and to hundreds 

riches bring. 

'' And now, worthy legislator, now, honorable sir. 
If you'd wealth, fine reputation, and great influence 
incur. 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 79 

Just vote for this concession; it will give my road 

a lift, 
And don't forget we've money and positions in our 

gift." 

" I'd like," the astute member said, " to boss a train 

of cars — 
My clothing all of broadcloth blue, my buttons 

golden stars — " 
'' There, there," the stranger's soothing voice cut 

short this modest speech; 
'' Vote right," he said, " the glorious prize is then 

within your reach." 



He " voted," and the railroad won. '' O thanks, 

great heart and brain," 
They wrote him thus, and yet once more — " Come 

on and take your train." 
He w^ent, and from old Albany to saline Syracuse, 
He ran a train of empties and he ruled the whole 

caboose ; 
There the superintendent met him — he was dusty, 

sleepy, tired — 
And took him to the office and informed him he — 

was — " fired." 



Now take warning, legislators, do not trust a 

stranger bland 
If you'd stay in the procession, and keep marching 

with the band ; 



So SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Don't be wand'ring" into by-ways where you're apt 

to take a slip, 
And be dropped down to your level after having 

made one trip. 



LET THE OLD DOG IN. 

Ain't old Shep hed his supper yet? Small doubt 

he'd like to come in; 
Shep ain't young as he ust to be; his jacket's wore 

ruther thin. 
Fm dead sure if I was a dog and gettin' 'long kind 

o' old. 
rd whine myself, if I was left supperless out in 

the cold. 
You did give him a plate of bones? Well, what 

did he git from that? 
A plate of well-gnawed-off spareribs, with scarcely 

a scrap of fat 
Don't cut a very great figger towards fillin' a big 

dog up, 
That has seen full fifteen seasons sence he was a 

little pup. 
Now, Jess, bake a dozen pancakes ; bake 'em brown 

and keep 'em hot. 
Grease 'em well over wdth butter, er anything else 

you've got 
That'll make 'em slip down easy. Ell go to the 

barn and bring 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 8l 

A horse blanket er buff'lo skin, er some other such 

old thing- 
Fur him to do his sleepin' on. Yes, here by the 

kitchen stove! 
I know you girls is quite nippy, and ain't got a 

tender love 
Fur the '' shiverin' old noosance " — shame on you ! 

Have you furgot 
When you, Jessie, was a baby and Jane was a little 

tot. 
And you fell into the goosepond? What chance 

would you had without 
Old Shep to jump in and ketch you, and fetch you 

safely out? 
Then, when the Jersey had iiie down, and was 

rippin' off my clo'es, 
\\'hat'd I done if the old dog hadn't took him by 

the nose. 
And hung on till I recovered, 'n got up onto my 

feet — 
Well, I had some satisfaction; that bull made good 

sassage meat. 
Now is them pancakes all ready? Have you got 

'em buttered well? 
All right! Jist step out to the door, and while 

you're there, please tell 
Old Shep that your father says the way's he's used's 

a sin; 
Then you hold the door wide open while you let 

the old dog in. 



82 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 



THE FAMILY'S NEEDS. 

Uncle John is to go to town; 

His team stands at the gate; 
He has two jars of butter in. 

And of fresh eggs a crate. 

Some fine fat fowls are stowed away 

In baskets 'neath the seat. 
Well covered with a tablecloth, 

Secure from dust and heat. 

Behind is new-cut clover, fresh. 

And a bag with oats — a feed, 
When twelve is struck, each horse will find 

All ready for his need. 

Ready to start is Uncle John, 

Ready his gray and brown, 
But he must know before he goes 

What he must fetch from town. 

Aunt Sarah comes: " Now, John! " she cries, 

'' Here's jugs, get New Orleans, 
And Porto Ricjue and vinegar. 

Fetch a pot for Boston beans. 

" Please don't forget the cans I want — 
A dozen, John, you hear! 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 83 

Some sugar? Yes, ten pounds of brown; 
The white is most too dear 

"To use for canning; then we need 

Some cloves and ginger root, 
And don't neglect while you are there 

To call for Johnnie's boot. 

" Wait, now ; the flour is almost out, 

The last we had was good; 
Get more of that, and some rolled oats ; 

They're nice for breakfast food. 

" And, John, please run into a store — 

A dry goods store, I mean — 
And buy eight yards of calico 

To make a dress for Jean. 

'' I want a spool of linen thread, 

Some buttons — what is that? 
You can't keep that whole string of things 

Beneath your old straw hat! 

'' I didn't think you could, dear man ; 

They're here all written down; 
Don't linger, now, but hasten on. 

Or you'll be late in town." 

The team has moved a hundred yards. 
''Wait, wait!" Aunt Sarah calls, 
7 



84 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

" I 'most forgot a pound of tea 
And cotton darning balls; 

'' And ink and paper for the girls, 

And oil for the machine. 
And — John, you're an impatient man. 

The worst I've ever seen ; 

" Well, well, go on, that's all, I think. 
But paint, some Spanish brown — " 

Her last words fell upon the air. 
For John had gone to town. 



LOOKING FOR WORK. 



AN IDYL OF THE TIMES. 

" I'm a mechanic," the stranger said. 

When he came to the farmer's door; 
'^ I'm a mechanic, out of work. 

And perhaps from your ample store 
You'll give me a dozen buckwheat cakes 

And a generous slice of pork, 
For surely I'm an honest man, 

In search of any honest work." 

The farmer took the stranger in. 
And from his ample breakfast store 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 85 

He gave a plate of ham and eggs, 

And buckwheat pancakes fidl a score; 

He hstened while the stranger talked, 
Pitying, when the other spoke 

Of how, within the past eight months, 
He'd labored not a single stroke. 

The farmer said, " I've use for you, 

Mechanic poor, and honest man. 
Come, stay with me the season through ; 

I'll help you out the best I can, 
Your wage I'll put to highest notch; 

Your skill is worth a lot to me, 
More than an ordinary hand 

In fixing up machinery. 

" Of work, I'll give you full six months ; 

I'll see that you're kept clean and neat," 
(He viewed the empty plate and sighed) 

And I'll give you enough to eat. 
We'll mend your clothing, iron your shirts, 

We'll wash and starch your cuffs and collars, 
And every month you work for me. 

Then I will pay you twenty dollars." 

The stranger heard with bated breath, 
His lips were curled with finest scorn; 

'' Think you ! " he thus indignant cried, 
" That I will stop and hoe your corn. 

And milk your cows, and plow your land, 



86 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

And roast my back in making hay? 
What! I, a good mechanic, work 

My hfe out for such poorhouse pay! 

'' I suppose, too, you'd expect me 

To work from rise to set of sun; 
Why, man, from seven until six 

A good mechanic's task is done. 
Then, sir, I am a union man; 

Of that one fact I'd have you know. 
We work for dollars three, a day, 

And never work a cent below. 

'' I've been a master workman now. 

In shop and mill, eight years or more; 
D'ye think I'll toil for thirty days 

To get of dollars but a score? 
No, sir, your offer I disdain. 

I would not earn a blessed crust 
By stamping sand or kicking hay, 

I'd sooner starve, if starve I must, 
Than bend my back to farmer's work. 

It's good enough for such as you 
Who knows no other life than this, 

But as for me. Hayseed, adieu." 

The angry farmer then upraised 
In his gigantic, cruel wrath, 

He chased the good mechanic down 
The neatly gravelled garden path. 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 8/ 

He kicked him as he left the gate, 

The poor uncultured farmer elf 
To kick a workingman away, 

Then go and do his work himself. 



THE FATE OF A LAZY MAN. 

FvE heard a remarkable story; 

I don't assume that it's so, 
But grandmother says it's a true one, 

And grandmother ought to know. 

'Twas in the old Mohawk valley. 

About eighteen twenty-two. 
When hard-working people were many 

And lazy people were few, 

That there lived a peculiar genius — 
John Smith, 'tis a common name — 

Who was both a drone and a sluggard, 
'Twas said, to his lasting shame. 

Not that Smith lacked for bone and muscle. 

He owned a supply of both ; 
But his merit — if he had any — 

Was buried deep in his sloth. 



SS SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

At last his industrious neighbors 

Decided that such a shirk 
Had no right to the air of heaven, 

And must che if he would not work. 

So they went to where John was sitting, 

Enjoying the pleasant sun, 
And they said in sepulchral voices, 

" Lazy bones, your race is run. 

" For you will not consent to labor. 

You will never learn to thrive. 
And we know no special reason 

Why you should be left alive. 

" Behold in this wagon a coffin 

Of seasoned Georgia pine; 
Just climb you over the off wheel there 

And into the box recline, 

" While we carry you to the graveyard. 

No words ! We will have it so. 
You've brought it all on yourself, you are 

Too lazy to work, you know." 

John Smith gaped three times, then he answered : 

" My fate, it on you depends; 
Here goes for your pitchy old coffin; 

Don't spoil a good fun'ral, friends." 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 89 

Then he laid himself down contented 

In the box of res'nous wood, 
And they drove quite slow toward the graveyard, 

As a funeral procession should, 

Till they met an innocent neighbor. 
Who had not yet heard the news, 

A generous man, and kind hearted. 
Most liberal in his views. 

Who halted to make some inquiries ; 

"Whose fun'ral is this?" he cried; 
" I surely have heard of no sickness, 

Nor of any one that's died." 

" Slothful Smith's," said the driver shortly; 

" Not dead, but he will not work, 
So we're taking him to the boneyard 

To bury the lazy shirk." 

" Don't do that," the good neighbor pleaded, 

" Let's assist this man forlorn; 
Please let him go scot free this time. 

I'll give him a bushel of corn." 

Smith listened, and peeped from the coffin, 
" Is it shelled corn? " he inquired. 

" It is notf Well, go on then, driver, 
I am not one to be hired 



90 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

" To hurt my soft hands while a-stripping 

My Hving from off the cob; 
No, friend, I dedine your kind offer. 

Drive on ! Let's finish the job." 

Did they bury Smith, are you asking? 

I don't know. The tale ends there; 
I tell it to you as I heard it 

In detail, with greatest care. 

Soon or late lazy folks are buried ; 

There are few who are exempt. 
If not beneath the graveyard clods, 

Then under a mass of contempt. 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 9I 



INTEREST VERSUS BEER. 

Two brothers went forth into hfe together; 

Each held a farm with a mortgage thereon. 
Early they toiled throughout all sorts of weather; 

Late toiled James Emanuel, late toiled John. 
Both had advantages, one like the other, 

Things that were natural — water and soil, 
Nearness to market, where weekly each brother 

Turned into cash the reward of his toil. 

Went John to market — his homecoming early 

Was sure to result as the day wore on. 
Not so with James E. — thick-tongued or quite surly 

His moods when he came after light was gone. 
John kept up his interest, and every season 

His principal dwindled till little was there; 
Emanuel grumbled: " I can't find the reason 

Why John gets along and has money to spare." 

He questioned his brother : '' Now, how do you 
turn it 

To pay on your principal every year, 
While I with hard work have not managed to 
learn it 

In e'en paying interest; isn't it queer? " 
Said John : " Dear Emanuel, I will relieve me 

Of this treasured secret ; no, it is not queer ; 
I early discovered, .now will you believe me, 

One lager costs one dollar's interest a year." 



92 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 



A PESSIMIST. 

I SWAN, if ever I did see 

Such a poor, drouthy spring as we 

Are a-hevin' all 'round here now. 

Corn ground is much too dry to plow, 

Spring grain is jest a standin' still, 

Nothin' growin', an' nothin' will, 

If it keeps on in this here way. 

What makes grass is a cool, wet May; 

'N as far as that part. May makes rye. 

But that can't head when it's so dry. 

Signs of showers ! Why, there ain't none. 

Las' Friday night when I see the sun 

A-settin' clear, I says, says I, 

'' Friday night, an' a good, clear sky — 

Now, that means rain 'fore Monday night." 

A drop ! Not by a blessed sight. 

Can't iiozv depend on anything. 

Treetoads c'n croak an' cuckoos sing, 

'N peacocks yawp; but I tell you, 

They don't fetch rain ez they ust to do. 

No more'n the swallers flyin' low, 

Doin' their best; can't make it go. 

/ watch the pitcher; it may sweat; 

If't does, why, then, we'll git rain yet; 

Eft don't, of course won't nothin' grow. 

Eft does, remember, / told you so. 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 93 



MY BOYS. 

Ev'ry one o' my boys 's 'n athlete; 

There's Pete; 

Stan' ten bar'ls in a row, 

Old flour bar'ls, er lime; 
He'll jump in an' out of 'em all 

'Thout touchin' e'er a chime — 
Will Pete. 

Next one's a mighty rassler, ketch an' throw; 

That's Joe; 

Jest let him git a holt, 

With his grapevine lock, 
'N the other feller goes down 

While he Stan's like a rock — 
That Joe. 

To ketch, er knock a ball, ther' ain't the like 

Of Ike; 

It's quite a tale to tell, 

But there is people. 
Seen him put a ball clean over 

Th' Methodist steeple, 
My Ike. 

If it's long, stan'in' jumps yer goin' on, 
Try John. 

Git a board ten foot long; 
Stan' him up at one end; 



94 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

He'll jump its length like a hoptoad, 
You kin jest depend, 

Will John. 

Fur a downright amatoor acrobat 

There's Matt; 

It's fun to see him swing 

On a circuser's bar, 
An' walk on his ban's to the road 

An' back; ever so far. 

That Matt. 

The'r athletic monkeyshines gives me joy; 

Ev'ry boy. 

Both me an' the'r mother 

Kind o' like to set an' see 
Them strappin' big young fellus cuttin' up 

The'r didoes after tea. 
Our boys. 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 95 

FISHING FOR BULLHEADS. 

7 A.M. 

'' Is the bullheads bitin'? Well, you bet your life 

they bite. 
Just you take yer fishpole an' slip down here toward 

night, 
An' if you will keep your mouth shut, an promise 

not to squeal, 
I'll show you where I ketched, las' night, twelve 

bullheads an' an eel. 

You needn't bring no bait along, that is unless you 

wish ; 
Las' night it rained 'n I found enough to ketch a 

bushel of fish ; 
Here they are in a fruit can, blackheads, every 

worm. 
Not a dead one among 'em, the bullheads can see 

'em squirm. 

You'd better fetch your dopper, the water is deep 

an' still 
In the place where I do my fishin', down below the 

mill. 
Some fellers don't use no dopper. I almost always 

do; 
I like to see it swim around, an' go in under, too. 



g6 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Yer father '11 surely let you come if you hustle 

round an' get 
The chores all done and cows away before the sun 

has set. 
An' then there comes an hour between the daylight 

and the night, 
That we must be down by the crick, for then the 

bullheads bite." 

7 P.M. 

'' Here, Jim, set down on this flat stone an' throw 

yer bait ahead ; 
Hold on, yer dopper's down too low! Where'd y' 

git that lump o' lead? 
Now I must find a place to set; well, here on this 

old tree, 
Right on the bank ; yes, this, I think, is good enough 

for me. 

Hi, Jim! yer dopper's tippin' ! a bullhead's bitin' 

there ; 
Now yank him out. Good boy, old Jim, you've got 

him, I declare; 
Put him right on the stringer here; he'll weigh a 

half a pound. 
Good gracious! where's my dopper? it's under, I'll 

be bound. 

Here he comes ! ain't he a whopper ! he made me 
fairly bounce, 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 97 

A little bigger'n yours, too; weighs more by full 

an ounce. 
Well, if you ain't got another! an' we've only just 

begun. 
I tell you if they bite like this, we're in for lots of 

fun. 

Now you, now me, now me, now you, O Jim, what's 

this I feel? 
It almost jerked me off the log; I b'lieve I've got 

an eel. 
Come, Jim, come quick, an' help me pull, for tho' 

I'm purty stout. 
There's something on my hook in there, an' I can't 

pull him out. 

Now, both together, here we go; the line is good 

an' strong. 
Hurrah ! he's wrigglin' on the bank, an eel full two 

feet long. 
Some more bullheads, an eel or two, it's half-past 

eight or nine; 
Let's gather up our traps an' go, an' come some 

other time." 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 



A GREAT DAY FOR GAME. 

Way back in the woodland pasture lot — 

Blackberries plenty there — 
My gran' father, into a tree he got, 
And when one came along, he up and shot 

A great big ugly bear. 

Then gran' father loaded up his gun. 

And something happened queer; 
He had just rammed the wad when by there run — 
'' Hullo! " cried my ancestor, " here's some fun! " 

A dozen nice, fat deer. 

He raised his gun to his shoulder then, 

And took a careful aim — 
" Bang! bang! " how it echoed along through the 

glen ; 
I scarce can tell you how loud with my pen. 

O, the ground was strewn with game. 

With powder and shot he fed his piece, 

He gazed the landscape o'er. 
And he found that the air was full of geese. 
He shot, and he shot. Did he never cease? 

Yes, when he dropped a score. 

And the air grew dark with siicli a mass 
Of pigeons o'er the tree, 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 99 

And at which he banged, while they fell to grass, 
But his shooting iron grew hot, alas! 
So thus it came that he 

Quit slaughtering things and scrambled down 

To view the work he'd done. 
And much to his glory and his renown, 
He gave all his game to his friends in town. 

Said he, " / had the fun." 



DONKEY AND MONKEY. 

" I AM on papa's back," he said, 

" And papa is my donkey. 
Now trot from the sofa across to the bed; 
Crawl under the table; we'll play it's a shed. 

And I am papa's monkey. 

'' What will you have for feed to-day? 

Come, now, do not be spunky; 
Is it oats, or meal, or a truss of hay? 
'A half pound of candy? ' is that what you say? 

Oh, what a funny donkey. 

" Come, sir, back out, for we must go. 

Look out! Don't throw your monkey. 
Now canter me up to the glass while you show 
Me the baby in there; he is there, I know, 

I have seen him often, donkey. 
8 



lOO SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

" He's there right on his papa's back, 

A baby plump and chunky, 
He is driving, Uke me, with his reins a-slack, 
And now as I gaze at him, he has a knack 

Of looking like your monkey. 

'' Well, papa, go, if go you must. 

And leave your little monkey. 
But you will come back to supper, I trust. 
Then again on the carpet we'll raise a dust. 

For you will be my donkey." 



THE OLD OAKEN SAWBUCK. 

No fond recollections surround the old sawbuck. 

The old oaken sawbuck that stood in the yard. 
But woodpile and chip yard bring up sage reflec- 
tions 
Of when we were youthful, and cord wood was 
hard. 

Did we wish to go fishing, or e'er go a-swimming. 
Or take other exercise seemingly good, 

We were told that good health through our veins 
would go skimming, 
If we took all our exercise sawing the wood. 




" NO FOND RECOLLECTIONS SURROUND THE OLD SAWBUCK, 

THE OLD OAKEN SAWBUCK THAT STOOD IN THE YARD. 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. lOI 

How we wished for a rest, when the midday once 
over, 

We sought out a place 'neath the shadiest tree. 
And heard that the women had chanced to discover 

That fire-wood was needed for baking and tea. 

Then we slowly adjourned to the woodpile so hated 
And bent our young backs to the nerve-scraping 
stroke, 

Nor could we return till the monster was sated — 
Our noon spell exhausted in service of oak. 

When we came home from school in the winter- 
time dreary. 

With visions of sleds or of skates on our minds. 
Chained down to the sawbuck until we were weary 

'Twas there, recreation we'd certainly find. 

We grew up apace, and the problem of fuel 

Was solved with a buzz-saw by help of horse 
pow'r; 
The sawbuck itself, by a process quite cruel, 

Went the way of the wood it had help'd to 
devour. 

'Tis years since we saw our old enemy perish. 
We have trod through life's valleys and climbed 
up its hills; 

There was nothing about the old sawbuck to cherish, 
But yet, when we think of it, memory thrills 



I02 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

With sighs for our boyhood, now getting quite 
distant, 
When we bent our young backs to the ner\^e- 
scraping stroke. 
And noon-spells and night-spells demands so per- 
sistent 
Were made on our muscles in service of oak. 



PLAYING BEAR. 

Come, Baby, the lamps in the kitchen are lit, 
The lambies are gone to their bed; 

The chickens roost high on a sassafras pole. 
The pigs are asleep in the shed; 

The lonesome old crow that we saw flying by, 

Sleeps well in the woods in a tree ; 
With a hawk and an owl and a flock of snowbirds. 

And a brave little chick-a-dee-dee. 

The bright little stars have come out in the sky — 
The wind whistles down the highway. 

How fortunate, we, that we're happy and well, 
And have such a nice place to play ! 

We'll pull down the curtain and shut out the night. 
And have a great game of " old bear." 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. IO3 

I'll be out in the woods, when you come roaring 
forth 
To give me a rousing big scare. 

-Boo! Bo-o!" what is that I hear— O, dear me! 

A very strange sound, I declare. 
- Boo! Bo-o! " shall I run?— what's the use— there 
it is — 

It's just what I thought— an old bear! 

Go a-way, Mr. Bear; I'm afraid I shall faint. 

'' Boo ! Bo-o ! " I don't want to be eat. 
Eat things that you like— honey, berries and such; 

You will find me a tough piece of meat. 

Here he comes— I shall run— no, I'll climb up a 
tree ! 
Here's one, tho' we call it a chair ; 
I am up; now come on! You may roar all you 
please, 
You've lost your good dinner, old bear ! 

- Boo ! B-0-0! B-0-0! " I don't know, I have heard 
that bears climb ; 
If this one should come up my tree. 
He would scare me and bear me and tear off my 
clothes. 
And quickly make mutton of me. 

He is climbing ! ^' Boo ! B-o-o ! " I must scramble 
and run 



I04 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

From the furthermost side of the tree. 
I have done it, and yet, I am nothing ahead — 
He is fohowing after, I see. 

No need, he has caught me ; O, please. Mister Bear, 

Don't eat me quite all up to-night. 
You have chased me so long that you've quite tired 
me out, 

And given me — O, what a fright! 

Now let me undress you and put you to bed; 

Then if you'll be quiet and good, 
I'll lie down beside you and tell you a tale 

Of a bear and Miss Red Ridinghood. 



MY SCHOOLGIRL SWEETHEART. 

Up to the old brown schoolhouse that stood on a 

hilltop high, 
Each day we w^ent together, my little love and I. 
She was a winsome lassie, my sweetheart twelve 

years old; 
Blue were her eyes as heaven, shining her curls of 

gold ; 
Light were her fairy footsteps, pleasant her sunny 

face, 
Carrying youth's prediction of woman's coming 

grace. 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. IO5 

Cheery, lovable, modest, how can her charms be 

told; 
My little schoolgirl sweetheart, my darling twelve 

years old! 

I was her schoolboy lover, sitting across the aisle, 
Braving the teacher's anger for a whisper or a smile. 
Many a red-cheeked apple or pear of golden hue 
Quick passed in the hours of study, noticed by only 

two; 
I drew her sled in winter, and to her tiny feet 
I bound the flashing runners. Then o'er the frozen 

sheet ... 

We two would glide together, happy 'mid frost and 

cold. 
For, was she not my sweetheart, my darling twelve 

years old! 

Grew there a springtime blossom, soon was the 
flower hers, 

To her came summer glories, and when the chest- 
nut burrs 

Opened their lips in autumn, showing their treasures 
brown, 

'Neath the tree sat my sweetheart — I shook the 
treasure down. 

So passed the hours of winter, so sped the summer 
days ; 



I06 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

She has become a woman with gentle, graceful 

ways, 
I have attained to manhood, yet by our own sweet 

will, 
I am her own true lover ; she is my sweetheart still. 



A RUSTIC ROMANCE. 

'TwAS twenty years ago, and more, 

When I, an awkward fellow. 
Young, tender, easily abashed, 

And just a trifle mellow, 
Came wand'ring down the roadside path 

And, turning, chanced to see 
Squire Johnson's daughter sitting there 

Beneath the apple-tree. 

I stole a hurried glance at her ; 

She smiled — oh, bliss entrancing! 
My pulses thrilled, my breath came quick. 

My foolish heart was dancing; 
For tho' that path beguiled me oft. 

Until this eve had she 
Not deigned to give her slave a smile 

From 'neath the apple-tree. 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. IO7 

Strange it may seem— I chose that walk 

For many eves thereafter; 
Strayed through the gate and sat beside 

The girl whose rippling laughter 
Was music to my lover's ears. 

She pledged her troth to me 
Under the stars in rosy June 

Beneath the apple-tree. 

So, twenty years have passed away, 

Bringing us joy and sorrow; 
Ours not the love of yesterday 

But of to-day and 'morrow; 
And when the summer ev'nings fall, 

How natural that we 
Should watch the setting of the sun 

From 'neath the apple-tree. 



io8 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 



MARRYING A PIG FOR HIS PEN. 

Chancing to stroll past a window, 

At the close of a warm summer's clay, 
When people were sitting at leisure, 

I heard a sweet, girlish voice say : 
"Dear me! of what is she thinking' 

Do you know what I always think when 
A girl weds a man for his money? 

She marries a pig for his pen." 

And I thought as I walked slowly onward, 

And pulled at my evening cigar, 
Of the truth her trite saying conveyed me, 

And of how many hright girls there are 
AVho unmercifully snub the poor suitors, 

And smile on the wealthy young men, 
To find when the farce is completed, 

They have married a pig for his pen. 

" That girl," says the world, " is well married 

That has money and jewels galore. 
Who dresses in sealskin and satin, 

And of servants employs half a score." 
It may be. The possession of riches 

Should not prove detrimental to love, 
And it may be that matches of all kinds ' 

Are made in the heaven above; 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. IO9 

But Tni not inclined to believe it ; 

For the owner of stock, ship or mine, 
Of an English manorial estate, 

Or a barony old, on the Rhine, 
Wins the prize from true worth and real manhood. 

When the wedding is over, 'tis then 
The bride often finds to her sorrow. 

She has married a pig for his pen. 



TOWARD THE SUNSET. 

Where are you going, my little lad? 

" Toward the sunset, sir," he said. 

" I have heard that beyond those purple bounds 

There's a fairy land, whose beautiful grounds 

Are planted with trees both strange and rare, 

And with blossoming shrubs and flowers fair; 

There are no teachers, nor tasks, nor school. 

It is always springtime, sweet and cool ; 

A beautiful lake laps the snowy sand. 

And I journey toward that sunset land." 

And you, tall youth, with manly tread? 

" I, too, toward the sunset go," he said; 

" For behind those mountains tipped with light, 

There's a land where ambition's lofty flight 



no SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

May find fruition for each desire; 
A land where the soul's most secret fire 
Is sacred ; for of all people there. 
The men are wise, the women fair, 
There is wealth and honor on ev'ry hand. 
And I journey toward that sunset land." 

Man in your prime, where haste you, pray? 
'' Toward the sunset lies my way, 
For far across those hills, so gray and old, 
There lies for me a land of gems and gold. 
Where freighted ship and train bring corn and 

wine, 
The products of the forest, field and mine 
To fill my coffers. O, ambition high ! 
My wealth will, for me, power and station buy. 
To seek these opportunities so grand, 
I journey toward that sunset land." 

O whither, grandsire with the hoary head? 
''Toward the sunset, sir," he said; 
" For me, beyond those gates of gold and red, 
There is a land of pure delight with blessings 

spread ; 
Fve journeyed long through this life's weary lease. 
And hope, when in that land, to be at peace. 
Fm nearing now that quiet resting place. 

joy for me, for I shall see His face. 

1 pause but for a moment on its strand, 
In journeying toward that sunset land." 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. HI 



A PHILOSOPHER OF MIDDLE-AGE. 

'' I AM fifty to-clay," cried a middle-aged man, 

" I am healthy and sound to the core, 
And according to Solomon there should remain 

Unto me yet of years a full score. 
But statistics have proved, they have proved beyond 
doubt, 

That the chances do not favor me, 
And Em doubtful myself, when it comes to the 
pinch. 

That the three-score-and-ten mark Ell see. 

'' I have worried a lot since I started this trip, 

I have fretted at weather and friends, 
I have fought night and day in the struggle for gold, 

Eelt the joy and the woe that it sends. 
Now, take notice, Eve quit, for it profits me not. 

When at best Eve of years but a score. 
To be dealing in jealousies, bickerings, strife, 

Not to speak of a dozen things more; 
So Ell just live along— do the best that I can. 

Leaving others to plot and connive. 
I will hail with rejoicing the sun of each day. 

Thanking God that He's left me alive." 



112 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 



A WINTER'S DAWN. 

Away to west a silv'ry shell is floating high, 
All through the purple dome the stars begin to die, 
Sore stricken by a ruddy light with steady glow, 
Which casts from east long, spectral shadows on 
the snow. 

No breeze is stirring; and the score of city spires 
Point heavenward through pearly, floating smoke 

of fires 
Lit on a thousand hearths ; and seeming loath to die 
Out in the icy vagueness of that frigid sky, 
The misty, earth-born vapors cling to things of 

earth. 
And rest in long, straight lines above their place of 

birth. 

Each bush and tree its load of crystal flow'rs to 

bear, 
Stands still and ghostly, doing landscape duty 

where 
The snow-clad fields in long-drawn ridges sweep 

away. 
To meet the distant forest line of purple gray, 
Where, high above the silent graves of blossoms 

there 
A pair of crows, slow winging, cleave the frosty air. 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 113 

A loaded, early sleigh by frost-hued horses drawn 
Flits groaning, squeaking by, fast driven toward 

the dawn, 
From whence a far-off train sends up a husky roar, 
And brilliant rising sun proclaims the day once 

more. 

The city's whistles through the clear, resounding 

air 
Send forth afar their daily buzzing, blust'ring 

blare . 
The workday world's astir; its armor girded on, 
And passed into eternity 's a winter's dawn. 



A WINTER'S NIGHT IN THE OLDEN TIME. 

Over the hills the wild wind swept, 

Whirling the drifting snow; 
Over the pen where the sheep were kept, 
Over the place where the chickens slept, 
And fast to the window sills there crept, 

Under the pale moon's glow — 

Billows of soft and downy white, 

Hiding the garden ground; 
Putting the rosebushes out of sight, 
Shutting the flowers from cold and light, 
Wrapping the earth in a mantle tight — 

Hollow and hill and mound. 
"J 



114 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 

The frost crept up the window-pane, 

Painting- a picture rare : 
Masses of flowers and ripened grain. 
Rock, mountain and forest, river, plain, 
A castle, a bridge, a distant train. 

Were quaintly pictured there. 

The wind roared down the chimney old, 

Singing a dismal song; 
While round the fire there were stories told 
Of fairies and gnomes and witches bold, 
Cleaving the night in the piercing cold. 

Sped by the wdnd along. 

Little enough we children cared, 

Either for snow or wand; 
All w^as w^arm and bright, and well we tared, 
Popcorn and apples and nuts we shared, 
Till 'twas nine o'clock, when w^e all prepared 

A cozy nest to find. 

Then up the stairs our way we'd make. 

Listening to the din 
Of rattling door and shutters' shake, 
Of roaring treetop, of hurling flake; 
Nor did our sleep of fear partake. 

When mother had tucked us in. 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. II5 



A VOYAGE TO NIDDY-NOD-LAND. 

Now a trip for the baby to Niddy-nod-land, 
Where the sea is on rockers, and e'en the smooth 

sand 
Is made of white flannel as downy and soft 
As the summery clouds that are floating aloft. 
Hi, ho ! for our journey so grand, 
In a l)illowy cradle to Niddy-nod-land. 

We are off; we have started for Niddy-nod-land, 
We are blown o'er the ocean by breezes so bland, 
That they scarce lift a curl from a voyager's head, 
Yet our craft far away on the waters has sped. 
Up, down, with a motion so grand. 
In a billowy cradle for Niddy-nod-land. 

O, how long is the journey to Niddy-nod-land? 
Not so long while the zephyrs our white sails ex- 
pand. 
We are nearing it now ; we will land on a rock — 
Hush, hush, it's of feathers; we won't feel the 

shock. 
Slow, slow, we have touched the soft strand, 
And our voyage is ended in Niddy-nod-land. 



Il6 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 



A DIFFERENCE IN OPINION. 

THE CITY girl's OPINION. 

Sweet golden-rod, the loveliest flower of all the 

summer long", 
Your very life's a poem, or a mute, unuttered song. 
When the rose has lost its heauty, and the violet its 

blue, 
When all summer flowers have left us, it is then 

we turn to you. 
With your sun-kissed, lace-like petals, with your 

leaves of glossy green. 
By the fences and the roadside where your glorious 

form is seen. 
Not in scanty clusters grow you, but with faces to 

the sky 
Lift your beauteous golden masses covering vale 

and mountain high. 
A flower wild and lowly yet with graceful native 

pride, 
You grace the rich man's table and the corsage of 

the bride. 
You beautify our fireplace, on our mantel shelf you 

nod ; 
We cannot see too much of you, O gentle golden- 
rod. 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. II7 

THE farmer's opinion. 

O, golden-rod, you mean exponent of a worn-out 

soil, 
Your hateful ways occasion me a lot of thankless 

toil. 
Let me wander down my fences, let me go where'er 

I will, 
Your ragged, sickly, yellow top is there to plague 

me still. 
A handy shelter, too, you are for noisome worms 

and bugs. 
The only perfume that you yield, a smell of nasty 

drugs. 
I find your dark and bitter leaves in April and in 

May, 
And next I sort your woody stalks from out my 

choicest hay. 
In August and September, you the city folks 

admire ; 
I take delight in cutting you and burning you with 

hre. 
If the city people like you, you vile, pernicious weed, 
I hope they'll come and take you, root and branch, 

and flower and seed. 



l8 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 



KNOWLEDGE. 

" I KNOW it all/' the young man thought, 

But left the thought unsaid, 
Pondering, meanwhile, mightily, 

That one small human head 
Should hold the knowledge that he'd got ; 

" O, what," he cried, " will I 
Not do with this vast hrain of mine 

Ere I get old and die." 

'' I know a lot;' he thought again, 

When o'er his head a score 
Of years had winged their silent flight, 

" But there to learn is more." 
'' I know not much," this time he said. 

In wisdom that age hrings. 
'' It takes all things to make a world — 

All men to know all thino-s." 



SOME RUSTIC RHYMES, I IQ 



BEAUTY. 



Bev\uty, 'tis said, is but a fading- flow'r; 

'Tis fleeting, transient, dying in an hour. 

Yet Nature doth with ever lavish hand 

Clothe all her works with form and beauty grand, 

And says to man : '' Come, worship at my shrine. 

To give thee joy, doth brain and eye combine; 

For thee I paint the rose and lily fair. 

The woods and fields, the gorgeous sunsets rare; 

For thee roll up the ocean's sparkling waves. 

For thee the land, the stalagmited caves; 

For thee I color butterfly and bee. 

Tint the wild blossoms, decorate each tree ; 

And when, perchance, a woman's lovely face 

Receives my tend' rest care, her form my grace. 

Scoff not, nor seek to look beyond the vail. 

Nor do thou Nature's glorious plans assail; 

Suffice it that thou see'st the beauty there; 

It pleaseth thee; thou hast no time to spare 

To seek perfection — let this beauty shine 

Tho' it be transient; it has source divine. 

All things cannot obey man's beck or nod. 

Enjoy the hour — this beauty's born of God." 



I20 SOME RUSTIC RHYMES. 



THE OTHER LIFE. 

Our lives are full of mystery ; we are not 
The creatures of a clay, to be forgot 
When death has rolled the earthly mists away 
And has released the spirit from its clay. 

Who has not felt, and chased the thought in vain, 
A fleeting phantasy flash o'er the brain, 
As if on some far-distant, shad'wy shore 
These thoughts were thought, these acts performed 
before. 

Somewhere we've lived before we saw this earth, 
Somewhere been fitted for a later birth. 
And here we're fitting for a higher plane 
Of use and beauty. We shall live again. 



FEB 5 1900 



